Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat
by Master of the Boot
Summary: In the deep vaults of Wayne Enterprises is the weapon known as Metal Gear Wayne; a weapon that absoloutely cannot fall into the wrong hands. As terrorists cripple Gotham, Solid Snake will have no choice but to team up with the Dark Knight to save the day.
1. Prologue

Metal Gear Wayne: Prologue

Author's note: This story is a crossover between Batman and Metal Gear. In some ways, Batman with his stealthy arts have inspired Metal Gear and other stories, thus it is only natural that we bring the two together.

Disclaimer: I do not own Metal Gear or the Batman franchise, though by God I wish I did. Special thanks must go to EZB for he is the one who's my Metal Gear encyclopaedia and my collaborator. He wrote the parts in this that chapter that star Solid Snake. So if I get sued for copyright, he's getting sued also. Just kidding.

* * *

Gotham City

Young Bruce Wayne rode in the back of the expensive Rolls Royce in utter silence. On his face was an uneasy expression. Awkwardness filled the vehicle. His butler Alfred did not at all like what was happening.

Influenced by the death of his parents, Bruce, now seventeen years of age, took it upon himself to learn how to fight.

At first he'd simply been content with the more reputable dojos and fight clubs, learning wrestling, karate, self defense and a few other fighting styles. It didn't take long for the orphaned billionaire to become dissatisfied with these kinds of places.

Bruce wanted to hunt down and fight men like the one who'd killed his parents. Every time he beat up some kid his own age in the ring, it was a hollow victory. They just didn't teach him the kind of stuff that he wanted to learn. He wanted to learn how to shatter a man's bones and use his thumbs to gouge out his attacker's eyes.

If he was going to have to become the greatest in the world, Bruce was going to have to look elsewhere for fighting lessons.

Enter the Narrows: the absolute worst part of Gotham City. Here was where the poorest denizens of Gotham City lived and most often died. That was where they were headed now, deep into the fetid, maggot infested heart of Gotham.

Alfred was Bruce's legal guardian and it was his job to see that the boy was raised well, but already he had a nagging suspicion that his young ward was going to grow up to be insane. With concern in his eyes, he looked at Bruce in the rear-view mirror. Bruce was a small boy for his age, with thin limbs and a head that was too large. This meek appearance belied an internal fire and lust for vengeance.

Choosing his words carefully, the butler took a left turn. "Master Bruce, are you sure that this is where you want to go?" He wasn't only referring to Bruce's choice of work out place.

Young Bruce snapped from his contemplative state. Like any seventeen year old, he had his doubts but he'd sooner lose teeth than show that doubt. "Of course, this is the best place for me to learn how to fight, Alfred."

The butler knew that he was going to lose this argument but he still had to try. "Why do you need to fight? Are you really planning to go out and fight every criminal in the city?"

Bruce leaned back, clutching at his cheap, no-name gym bag. He really didn't want to say it out loud, but he did want to go out and fight all the criminals out there. He'd find the criminals in their dens and slam their balls in the doors of their stolen cars.

Brilliant at his school studies, genius even, Bruce was still a socially awkward child that never seemed to know how to connect with people. For him, solace was found only in books on criminology and in combat.

The boy billionaire noticed that his destination was almost here. Through many sleepless nights, Bruce had discovered a great place to hone his fighting skills. It was a small, nameless club that was run by a former Special Forces soldier. The owner made his living by training gang bangers and mafia hit men, so during sparring matches there were virtually no rules.

Alfred finally stopped the vehicle a short distance from the club. It was an ugly concrete building that looked like it had been gutted by fire. One last time, the butler tried to sway the stubborn young man from his present course. "Please, Master Bruce, couldn't you reconsider taking rugby or something else to vent your aggression?"

Bruce held his bag tightly and opened the car door. He looked up at Alfred; his face was hard and emotionless but his eyes were large and sad. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but this is something I have to do."

"But you could be killed," protested the butler.

"But Alfred," Bruce whined like a normal teenager, "you said that if I kept my marks up I could do this. I have perfect marks at school!"

The loyal manservant to the Wayne family sighed and relented. The car door opened and Bruce stepped out. As he did this, Alfred pulled a gun out of the glove box and cocked it.

Bruce made it about five steps from the car when he was attacked by about ten drug addicts with a few regular muggers thrown in for variety. Alfred's eyes widened as he watched his ward beat the crap out of every single one of those dregs. It was always like this, coming to this club; you fought your way in and you had to fight your way out.

As much as Bruce had scorned the training places that the well-to-to attended, he had learned some very valuable skills in attack and self defence

Class was just about to start when Bruce ran in. Profusely he apologized to the head trainer. "Sorry I'm late."

The instructor just looked annoyed. Originally he hadn't meant to let in this pretty boy rich kid, but he couldn't say no to the kind of money he'd been offered. Like a flash, Bruce was in his workout clothes and ready to fight.

The instructor lit a cigarette and thoughtfully stroked the big scar on his cheek. "Okay, partner up, we're practicing more close quarter combat today."

He took a drag on his smoke and pointed at Bruce. "Because you're late and missed the warm up, you're going to go with our biggest, strongest member."

By that he was referring to the three hundred pound Mafia hit man named Roberto Zaphino, who had killed over forty people when he was still in high school.

Undaunted by one of Carmine Falcone's thugs, Bruce got into fighting stance before Roberto. Roberto just laughed.

* * *

Insects chirped and shrieked loudly in the surrounding bush. Birds too added to the symphony of noise that was the jungles setting. One would think that even with the grand orchestra of noise, accompanied by the lavish terrain of thick bushes and thick trees, anyone could sneak, undetected in the undergrowth. A fallen tree had recently created an opening to the thick jungle. Rays of sun shot down into the damp floor of the jungle. Smaller, faster growing plants had taken root.

A single frog leapt up into the air. Its green color kept its fast movements obscured as it landed on the vine covered log. A loud croak bellowed out from its vocal sack. It was hungry. Its eyes found several tasty flies, all themselves looking for food. It followed their movements only for a fem moments though. Something else in the jungle caught its attention. In its eyes a being, tall enough and loud enough to be a threat, was approaching. It turned its attention to the being.

A man stepped out. His face was obscured with a mask, exposing his eyes. Grey-blue eyes peered out and around the area. The figure was also clad in camouflage combat getup- jacket, boots, pants, even the knife he held by his gun was camo'ed. Taking a step on a loud, dead root, he made his presence known with a loud snap. Several birds took flight and he gasped, raising his silenced pistol upwards. He sighed, only to mentally curse himself for making more noise. It was bad enough that he had broken the twig, or branch, or whatever he had stepped on, but it was also bad enough that he sighed out loud.

Gingerly he took several more steps, just staying out of the rays of light. A loud croak caught his attention. His gun again raced towards the point of origin, and found a small tree frog staring at him. He resisted sighing loudly, and told himself to relax. He could keep alert without shooting at everything that made a sound. Checking the surrounding area, he finally stepped into the light. It was now hot and buggy, but if he stayed put for too long, he might be found. The frog turned and jumped away as he stepped closer.

"Heh. I'd eat you if I hadn't already had a Big Mac," the man chuckled. He stepped onto the log with one foot.

A foot swung out from under the log and tossed his balance off. Falling backwards, the man landed painfully on the back of his head. His eyesight swimming, he glanced up, only to find pressure on his chest.

"Never speak, unless interrogating a hostage," a man, also camouflaged, but wrapped in vines, stated. The one on the ground grunted and tossed the foot away, rolling to the right. He stood up, and gripped his gun. No one shoved him down and got away with it.

The enemy had been expected the pistol. As it was pointed right for him, he wove an arm around the gun and arm, grasping the shoulder while forcing the gun upwards. The attacker slid a boot around the mans foot and again forced him to collapse downward. The gun clattered away under the log.

"Pistols are great, but in C.Q.C," the man started again," a knife works better," the first man again got up and thrust his knife at the attackers chest. The attacker immediately grasped the hand and twisted it. The man had to drop it. "and what do you do if you loose both weapons?" The man stood up and tried punching the leg, growling in anger. "Don't loose your focus!" A kick to the jaw had the man fall back into more bushes.

He stood, and took the mans words this time and applied them. He steadily arose and approached, ready for combat. The attacker this time struck for his face. The man tried to step aside, only to meet a kick to the ribs. He was able to grab the leg however. Triumphantly he held it, only to spot the attacker, steadily keeping his balance. The man made a grievous error- he had done nothing but root himself, and present his attacker with a great target- the side of his head. Just as he predicted, the attacker leapt up, his leg still being held, and planted the face of his foot cleanly in the cheek of the man.

He fell, unable to see clearly, or even think. Several moments passed before he spotted the attacker holding a gun down on him.

"Bang, you're dead, David."

"Damn it!" he grunted the man, who ripped off his head piece. Thick, brown hair fell out, sticky with sweat and precipitation. The man who would one day be called Solid Snake stared up at the man who beat him. He hadn't lowered the gun. "I'm getting sick of this bullshit," he said in a fit of anger.

Actually, man wasn't the right word for it. At seventeen, he was only a boy, a greenhorn compared to the other man.

"You want this to be over as soon as possible," the man, who hadn't removed the mask," which makes you rush your actions. Rushing is what makes you impatient, which in return," the man lowered his gun, and pulled his mask off," dead."

"Right, boss, right. I get you," David sighed as he relaxed. Above him, the great Big Boss stared down on him. With an eye patch and a single blue eye, graying hair with several strands of Brown still left, the legendary soldier, and leader of FOXHOUND offered a hand to his trainee. It hadn't been long since David had joined.

"Snake, you're a good fighter. You know that. But if you keep making these irrational decisions on the battlefield, you'll find yourself one day in a position like this. Only, it wont be me holding a gun down on you, and I doubt they will help you back up for another round," Big Boss stated to Solid Snake, the codename given to David, as he helped him up.

"We're seriously doing another one?" Snake stated, sitting down on the log. It was now the sixth time that Snake had tried to sneak up on Big Boss and defeat him using Close Quarters Combat, or CQC. "This stuff gets dull after a while," he stated, just as Big Boss lit a cigarette.

"You mean defeat?" Big Boss clarified," surly you don't mean combat?"

"Well, fighting is always different, but walking around forever, looking for you is hardly what I call fun, Boss," Snake spat a wad of spit into the bushes," I don't think guards will be waiting in the bushes for someone to come sneaking by."

"You would. And you are probably right. Guards don't need to because they have firepower and usually a clear sight from their position. But imagine for a second… you were wrong," Big Boss stated. "Assuming that the world operates on what we call 'normal' is foolish. On the battlefield, there is no normal: only what is, and what isn't. I just proved to you that, yes, someone could hide in the bushes for your arrival."

"Well I don't think sneaking through trees tops like a monkey will get me anywhere," Snake huffed as he watched jealously as Big Boss enjoyed his smoke.

"You are missing the point, still!" Big Boss growled, facing the sitting operative," you must be aware for anything, at all times. This clearing could have been used as an ambush! Or maybe landmines!"

"Not landmines," Snake argued," there was a tree frog on the log. I don't think a frog like that would have come near if people were messing around." Big Boss gave him a tired look, and sighed, smoke trailing out from his mouth dramatically.

"Snake, I cannot teach you how to think. I can try all I want, and I may influence you in time… but if there is one thing I must get through your skull before you go on mission is a strong sense of will."

"Will?" Snake asked," what good is will on the line of battle?"

"Will is everything. The will to go one for days on a mission with only raw foods, like that frog you saw, or the birds, even certain flowers… the will to wait, patiently for a patrol to arrive at a checkpoint, alone, for you to interrogate… the will to fight; the will to continue on. It is the power of ones will that defines the weak," Big Boss glared down at the staring soldier," from the strong."

Snake swallowed the words with difficulty. It was hard to imagine that the old man standing above him had beaten him only with the power of will. But then again, there had be moments during the day he had known it was Big Boss and not a random soldier that held back his decisions. He closed his eyes for a moment. The bruises on top of bruises still hurt, but if Big Boss was right, he had to give it a shot. He stood.

"Are you ready for one more? Perhaps you will take my words a little more seriously," Big Boss stated, flicking away the burnt out cigarette.

"Maybe. Or maybe I just want to kick your sorry, old, ass," Snake retorted. Big Boss smiled.

"Remember… will. It is will that really separates the weak and the strong," Big Boss stated as Snake walked past him, and into the bush.

"We'll see about that, Snake said over his shoulder, and suddenly pulled out a smoke of his own, and lit it as he walked away into the dense terrain. Big Boss blinked and checked his front pocket. The Cigarettes were gone.

"Son of a bitch stole my smokes," Big Boss mumbled," he can do alright when he wants to."

* * *

Young Bruce Wayne wasn't feeling so good. His handsome face was covered with bruises and one eye was completely swollen shut. The hit man for the Falcone family had totally schooled Bruce in the art of doing bad things to another person.

While Bruce could beat up ten muggers, this hit man had totally outclassed him, not only in sparring but in the physical conditioning. Despite his massive bulk, he'd still beaten Bruce in the wind sprints; much to the young Wayne's humiliation.

It didn't matter to Bruce that this guy weighted two thirds more than his weight or that he was a full decade older, he didn't like to lose. The boy billionaire carefully kept his bilious anger hidden.

He was going to have a dandy of a time explaining theses injuries to the school authorities. They'd probably think that Alfred was the one hitting him.

The instructor gave everyone an unsentimental farewell. "Next practice is tomorrow at the same time; we're doing weights. Now get the fuck out of here."

As he headed towards the changing room, Bruce nearly walked into Roberto. The giant Sicilian assassin leered at Bruce, showing off a mouth full of missing and gold teeth. The man's nose, broken multiple times, twisted like a road map.

He'd come to gloat over his victory; putting the young pup in his place. He didn't realize that Bruce cared about none of it. He didn't care that Roberto could lift a small car or that he was with the biggest mob in town or any of it. All Bruce saw was a big wall of flesh that needed to go down.

Bruce breathed in slowly and blinked his eyes owlishly. Without warning, he threw himself into a perfectly executed Tai Kwon Do kick and kicked the guy right in the fanny knockers.

The huge hit man howled in pain like a wounded seal and went down like melted wax. Roberto groaned and cried for a second and then put his hands to his now useless jingle bells. As he lay there feeling sorry for himself, Bruce stepped on his head getting to the change room.

Bruce Wayne did _not_ like to lose

* * *

That's a wrap folks. Young Snake and Batman :) Aren't they the best? Next chapter we'll flash forward to the present and get things running. While you're here, if you're interested in a good X-Men crossover, try Captain Lycan's _Hellsing X._ Trust me, it's a blast.

Ta

Master of the Boot


	2. The Bat and the Snake

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter 1: The Bat and the Snake

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or Metal Gear. Those are owned by Konami and DC Comics.

* * *

When you got right down to the nitty gritty, Gotham was an ugly city. The city very much resembled what New York City would look like today if a hundred years ago there had been no civic planning or zoning laws to regulate the construction industry.

Buildings were crowded together like fungi on the bottom floor of the rain forest; all of them seemingly trying to crowd out its neighbours. In the poorer areas, many structures had been built without any form of fire escape or many other safety structures that most places in America took for granted.

Gotham was America's crime capital. It had more rapes and murders per capita than any other city in the nation. It was like living in Mexico City but without the warm weather.

That the town was a hot bed of corruption and crime was no accident. The city's powerful business community and its sleazy civic government had conspired with organized crime to create an environment in which the rich could get richer and the poor could get killed.

All of that was changing however. Four years ago, _he_ had appeared on the scene and showed to Gotham's fearful masses that the corrupt business tycoons and gangsters were far from untouchable.

_He'd_ hounded and humiliated the amoral and the wealthy; showing to the people that they did not have to stand for it.

Things were changing. Even now, there was a strong effort to revamp the crumbling public schools in Gotham. The mayor cried himself to sleep every night because he knew that with public interest in politics at such a high, he'd actually have to keep his election promises.

The people of Gotham had been awakened to the fact that they were entitled to better and not everybody liked it.

Super villains kept popping out of the woodwork, as if the city were desperate to cling onto the bad old days.

Some even tried to blame _him _for the rise of the super villains, but those voices were becoming quieter by the day. Many more were quick to blame the government for not doing more to stop the super criminals.

_He _stood there like a quiet sentinel; like the animal which he'd borrowed the appearance of. His rough black armour blended in perfectly with the night. The lenses in his cowl turned his naturally blue eyes a dark red, so that it looked like he were some inhuman demon from hell.

Under the armour and cape he was a big man, built by years of gruelling physical training that still continued to this day.

He'd been trained by the gurus, ancient masters, military officers and just about anybody who knew something useful. All of it in the service in his war on crime.

Bruce Wayne had come a long way, but right now he wasn't Bruce Wayne. Right now, high above Gotham's tallest towers on a smoky, sooty night, he was the Batman.

Snapping to life like a creature of the night, Batman vaulted off the ledge he stood from. He plunged in free flight before his cape snapped into the rigid shape of wings.

It was nearly dawn and the caped crusader had one more job to do tonight before calling it a night.

* * *

In another part of the country, a man who also went by an alias was hard at work. This man was known as Solid Snake. Cloned from the DNA of the deadliest soldier of the twentieth century, Snake was the most feared Special Forces soldier to serve in the military of the United States.

He wasn't in the military anymore. Now he was working with his pal Otacon in an anti-Metal Gear organization called Philanthropy.

Philanthropy was a private organization, funded and founded by a playboy billionaire with more money than sense.

The hunky playboy thought that total world annihilation would crimp his chances of getting some tail so he formed his own group using only the best of the best.

The lithe, youthful spec ops man was busily tending to his arsenal of weapons for the next mission.

The PSG-1 sniper rifle was lovingly disassembled and cleaned. Snake knew this weapon like the back of his hand and he knew how to make it operate in any weather conditions. Whether it was desert, swamp or tundra, Snake knew how to get the bang for his buck when it came to equipment.

With the sniper rifle attended to, it was the MK .23 SOCOM pistol's turn next. It was a powerful weapon; perfect for medium to short range combat and much more reliable and practical than the ludicrous Desert Eagle handgun.

As he inspected the disassembled pistol, Snake turned his gaze to his arguably most important tool: his cigarette lighter.

While not a heavy smoker, Snake loved his tobacco. In his front pocket was a pack of his favourite cigarettes, nearly empty.

The SOCOM ship shape and ready to fire on demand, Snake realized that he was going to have to head out today and fetch some more smokes. Perhaps he could try and get Otacon to do the favour for him?

Nah; he liked Otacon a lot, but he wouldn't trust the computer genius with a job of this importance.

Suddenly, Solid Snake got a call on his codec communicator; a nanotechnology based device which allowed for virtually undetected communication between two parties. You didn't even need to talk aloud for this stuff.

Aux

**Call**

_Push Select_

_Snake: Identify yourself_

_Otacon: Snake, it's me_

_Snake: Good to hear from you, Otacon. Have you found yourself a girlfriend yet?_

_Otacon: Com on, Snake; quit yanking my chain like that. _

_Snake: Me, yanking your chain? Never. You're handsome and you know your way around computers. I bet the girls are breaking down your door just to get a look at you._

_Otacon: Well, uh, we've got our new commanding officer: Colonel Roy Campbell. He's supposed to brief you in twenty minutes._

_Snake: Campbell?_

_Otacon: Yeah, I only learned it this morning from a memo from Bruce Wayne. _

_Snake: Well, this is a surprise. What do you think Wayne offered Roy to come and join the party?_

_Otacon: Knowing Colonel Campbell; I'd say a lot of money and a brand new car with all the fixins. _

_Snake: Yessss. Now I can play my favourite game again. Joyriding in the officer's cars._

_Otacon: Snake . . ._

_Snake: Alright, I'll behave. I'm heading to the briefing room now. _

* * *

Batman stood over top of a sweating corporate employee. The man in question was Carl Berkshire and he was an employee of English Petroleum; an oil company responsible for an oil rig that exploded recently and destroyed the fishing industry from Mexico all the way into Northern Europe.

Superman was out in the gulf, using his otherworldly powers to clean the oil, but Batman was frying the big fish.

Carl over here had been emptying the fisherman's aid fund into his own private offshore account. Billions of dollars meant to help thousands whose jobs had been destroyed overnight and Carl was going to take it all to the Bahamas and spend it all on coke and whores.

If he got away with it, Carl Berkshire would have made off with more money than the Joker and all of Batman's rogue's gallery had stolen or vandalized in their entire criminal careers.

Naturally, Batman had a problem with that. His job was to fight crime, from cheap hoods with knives to white collar criminals like Carl here.

The man was scared, but not as scared as he should have been. Batman just knew that the guy had something planned.

"What are you doing here, Carl?" asked the Batman. It sounded like the voice of a man who's not far away from beating you into a bloody pulp.

Carl jumped at that rough, low voice. The little corporate suite was reasonably fit; he played squash three times a week, but he'd never have a chance against the Dark Knight.

"Did you take something that wasn't yours, _Carl?" _the Dark Knight snarled at his quarry. The man was afraid but he wasn't afraid enough. Batman knew for sure that Carl had some kind of hired help around.

Taking a step closer to Berkshire, Batman loomed over the lowly criminal.

Batman rose over Carl Berkshire like a shadow. Carl couldn't make out any features. He just saw a big outline, some long, pointed ears and those eyes.

The eyes scared Carl; the color of dark blood and able to stare into his very soul.

Underneath his cape, Batman pressed a button which activated the cowl's scanning mode. Immediately, Batman's world became an infrared pastiche of cool blue. The only heat in the room coming from Carl.

Adjusting the scan, the red lenses allowed Batman to see through the walls of the building.

Not wanting to be any closer to Gotham's dark protector than he already was, Carl backed up, only to trip and fall over his waste basket.

Sweating like a farm animal, the guilty man crawled backwards as the bat got closer.

Once more that cruel, rough voice penetrated the dark. "The thing I don't get about you people is that you have ever advantage in life; you're educated, your parents loved you."

Batman scanned through the walls. So far nobody there but him and Carl boy.

"And in the end you rob millions of their livelihood. You're worse than the common hood."

By comparison, Carl's voice was a squeak. "Stay away from me, Batman. I've got protection."

He was telling Batman what he already knew. It was at that moment that Batman detected another heat signature on his cowl.

It was a large red shape of a man . . . pointing his arm at where Batman was standing.

Not wanting to see if the guy had armour piercing bullets, Batman threw himself to the side just as a hail of machinegun fire tore through the wall.

No rest for the wicked and even less for the Batman. Bruce rolled out of the way from yet more gunfire. On the heads up display of his cowl, Bruce was informed by a satellite with remote access to the Batcomputer that the assassin in question was the infamous Deadshot and he was using armour piercing bullets.

Well, Batman didn't need a computer to tell him that. Only Deadshot used a wrist mounted gun like this dude here and only Deadshot had goggles that let him see through walls.

Over the chaos Carl screamed. "KILL HIM, DEADSHOT!"

Batman cursed and reached for his utility belt. It was going to be one of those times.

* * *

Snake entered the briefing room where the venerable Colonel Roy Campbell was situated.

The legendary soldier was supposed to be unarmed when in the beefing room but inside his jacket and up his sleeve he kept a set of concealable side arms. The base was supposed to be impenetrable by any form of attack, physical or cyber.

Well, the crusader fortresses of the middle ages had been impenetrable until the Mongol invaders showed up with their Chinese catapults to test that. Hence, Snake always made it a policy to be armed in the event of hostile takeover.

Any day, maybe not today or tomorrow; the Mongols could return and Solid Snake was going to be ready for it.

Colonel Campbell shared Snake's view about weapons in the briefing room and the old officer also carried his share of concealed weapons. It was a foolish policy that served only to assuage their benefactor's irrational hatred of guns.

Snake was clad in a drab green military uniform and black boots. Though a clone, Snake did not share Big Boss's love of a well pressed uniform and he hated ironing. So while the uniform on Snake was presentable, it wasn't nice enough to wear on Sundays.

Also unlike his father, Snake was heavily partial to bandannas. A camo coloured strip of cloth was tied around Snake's head; it gave him the look of a ninja character from Capcom.

The Colonel wasted no time on the proceedings. "You're late, Snake. Sit down."

The superspy was coy to the straight lace manner of his superior officer. "Something wrong, Colonel? You're a little on edge today."

"Never mind that, Snake; we've got important business to discuss."

Not wishing to play with Campbell's mind any further, Snake quietly took a seat as the Colonel began to dim the lights.

Snake knew very well that it was time for another PowerPoint display. He loved these things; it was very much like watching a movie, except that the fate of the nation and sometimes the world was really at stake.

The Colonel then went to the film projector, only to find that it wasn't broadcasting what was shown on the files Campbell downloaded.

Roy cursed as he tried to get the computer system working. He badly missed the days of the simple slide shows. There were fewer things that went wrong with a system like that. Come to think of it, he also missed type writers and the moral simplicity of the cold war.

Seeing that Colonel Roy Campbell wasn't going to get the problem fixed any time soon, Snake got up from his chair and got to use his superior genetics.

Having the perfect tactical genes in existence, Snake was a fiend on the battlefield. These genes also permitted him sleight of hand with computers and computer systems. Interestingly enough, the tactical genes of Big Boss also gave Solid Snake mad knitting and sewing skills. Boss tried to teach his clone son how to knit but young Snake always resisted.

Thus with Snake at the helm, it wasn't long before the Colonel could start his presentation.

The slideshow started off with a nice title; Snake liked the font. It was pretty and cool without being too flashy.

Then came the photograph of a man that Snake knew very well. "Revolver Ocelot," he hissed.

"That's right, Snake," said the Colonel.

The screen changed to an image of Snake strapped to a giant generator/electric torture device and Revolver Ocelot had his finger on the on switch.

"This is where you and he first met at the Shadow Moses incident," Colonel Campbell unnecessarily elaborated.

Campbell hit the remote control and the show flipped over to the next slide. It showed a young man, eighteen years old if a day dressed in the uniform of the Soviet Spetznaz group.

"Ocelot was born the sixth of June, nineteen forty four under the name Adamaska, to unknown parents. He was conscripted into the Soviet military not long after his fifteenth birthday and four years later he became not only a part of Spetznaz, but the leader of their elite Ocelot Unit."

Snake commented wryly between puffs on a cigarette. "So his codename isn't totally arbitrary."

"Come on, Snake," berated the Colonel. "He's a gunslinger themed assassin from Soviet Russia; the whole idea of him is arbitrary."

Snake shrugged and sucked lovingly on his smoke. Damn these things were bad for him but he so loved them.

The Colonel continued with the presentation; with a complete collection of photographs, of course.

"In nineteen sixty-four he encountered FOX operative Naked Snake, your father, in the events that are now dubbed _Snake Eater_."

"He tortured your father and caused the loss of his eye." Cue a large color photo of a man identical to Snake save for an eye patch and an infinitely less wrinkly uniform.

"It was after the encounter with your father that Ocelot began increasingly adopting Western tropes into his clothing. By nineteen eighty he resigned the Soviet military system, claiming it was a bloated, diseased alcoholic ready to commit suicide. A year later he was first seen in his famous cowboy shtick."

The pictures came fast and hard, providing perfect backup to the story that the Colonel was telling.

"Interesting," commented Snake as the screen settled on an Ocelot who was older and worn, but not yet gone white.

* * *

Batman honestly hated Deadshot. The guy had good aim; _really_ good aim. The son of a bitch could shoot a bullet out of the air and he never missed.

A year ago he'd been hired to kill Commissioner Gordon. Batman had put a stop to Deashot's criminal career and sent the magic marksman off to the slam.

Now it seemed that Deadshot had taken on Carl's offer just to get a shot at revenge on Batman.

The Dark Knight crouched behind a marble topped desk he'd thrown on its side. Bullets slammed into the desk, turning the marble into lethal shrapnel. At least however, Batman's armour could stop the shards of flying marble.

There was another bonus in the fact that the marble prevented Deadshot from getting a good view of Batman in his thermal imagine goggles.

Trying to think of a way out of this, Batman pressed a button on his gauntlet and activated the Batsuit's stealth systems. It was a cooling feature designed to make the Dark Knight nearly invisible to thermal imagine. The only downside to the system was that it took time to kick into effect and it only worked for a limited time before overheating.

Batman's ears caught the sound of a grenade launcher being cocked. Reacting instantly, Batman fired his grapple launcher and snagged a wall corner.

Lickity split, Batman dragged himself across the office floor, covering his left side in dust and saving Batman from the exploding grenade that would have killed him for sure, armour or no.

Behind his stainless steel tactical mask, Deadshot grinned. He wasn't at all used to people defying him; which is why it stung so much when a guy do didn't even use a gun beat him.

Deadshot had a score to settle and he was much better armed this time. Not wasting a beat, the assassin reloaded his wrist mounted submachine guns and grabbed a honking big machine gun with a ton of aftermarket modifications. He cocked the sweet weapon and set off to kill some bat.

Meanwhile in the office, Carl Berkshire was hugging his knees and getting ready to sob. When he'd ruthlessly embarked on a plot to rob thousands of people and leave them and their families to starve, he'd never imagined that he'd get caught.

* * *

The slide show went on, accompanied by Roy Campbell's informative narration. "After the shadow Moses incident, the next time Ocelot was seen was during the incident at the Big Shell offshore decontamination facility."

Snake once more nodded and grimaced. "I remember that too. That fellah Raiden showed up. Nice guy; bit on the queer side but didn't do too bad a job."

Campbell continued with the seemingly endless character exposition. "Recently Ocelot was spotted near a Lexcorp oil refining facility in Sudan, but so far we haven't seen hide nor hair of him."

"Ocelot has also recruited two top end fighters into his terrorist cell."

Once more, the slides changed. This time it showed an image of a massively muscular man with black hair wearing the formal uniform of French Special Forces.

"This is codename "Gaston" of The Army Special Forces Brigade; the French army's Special Forces unit. His real name is unknown but prior to his dishonourable discharge from the French Military he was a member of French Black Ops group _Tournevis_."

"Wait," interrupted Snake, "The French had a black ops group called 'screwdriver?"

Campbell nodded. "I keep forgetting that you speak French. When I talk to you in English, all you seem to say is 'what."

Snake stiffened in his seat. "Thanks," he said tersely.

"They take their name from the fact that as part of their initiation they have to kill a Gypsy with a Phillips screwdriver."

Snake put out his cigarette and shuddered. "I knew the Frogs were all twisted, but I had no idea."

Ignoring Snake's un-politically correct comment, Campbell elaborated.

"Gaston is an avid hunter and a world class marksman. He was dishonourably discharged from service after attempting to force himself on the French President's daughter."

The slideshow then revealed a picture of a smiling Gaston holding down a traumatized girl in a crowded bakery.

"I see," said Snake, "So no one rapes people in bakeries like Gaston."

"Don't underestimate Gaston. He single handedly stopped the riots in Paris in two thousand and five using only his hunting rifle and five thousand rounds of ammunition. Even more impressive was that he did all of this from the comfort of his favourite tavern."

"The second member of Ocelot's team is Giovanni Bravisimo, former US Army ranger; codename 'Johnny Bravo."

"Johnny Bravo holds several world records for physical strength and endurance."

Illustrating the point was a video of an also massively muscular man with no shirt on. Unlike Gaston, Johnny had blond hair and his eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses.

In the video two female black belts in Karate hit him repeatedly across the chest with baseball bats. Johnny didn't even flinch as the bats snapped in half over his massive chest, covered in curly blonde hair.

"Those are real baseball bats, Snake," the Colonel informed him.

Snake just watched as the women started to hit Johnny across the chest and legs with steel pipes. Again, he showed no sign of discomfort.

When he tried to hit on one of the women, the lady smoked Johnny across the face with her pipe.

Then Johnny showed discomfort, grabbing the side of his face and saying, "Ow."

For a moment, Roy paused and got a good look at Snake. It was already starting. "How are you feeling, Snake?"

Snake lit another Smoke and tried to be nonchalant about it. "I'm as good as a man falsely branded an eco-terrorist can be."

Neither of them wanted to acknowledge the white elephant in the room.

Snake had the beginnings of Werner's syndrome; advanced ageing caused by the cloning process. In a matter of weeks, maybe, he'd start to show advanced age and then eventually rot like a pumpkin after Halloween.

* * *

Deadshot kept firing his gun at the bat. Nobody had ever been able to evade his aim until now; which was going to make it a lot sweeter when he brought the Batman's head home as a trophy.

Reloading his weapon, Deadshot was caught off guard by Batman popping up from behind a pile of destroyed furniture like a hellish gopher out of his hole.

In his hand he held his grappling gun.

A grapple and line shot at Deadshot and latched firmly onto the center of his custom modified machine gun.

Grabbing the cord and pulling, Bruce tore the machine gun out of Deadshot's hands. At times like this Bruce was glad he'd invented the special grappling head designated the Batclaw.

Ducking for cover, since Deadshot still had his two wrist guns (with armour piercing ammunition) Batman rewound the grappling gun for another shot with the Batclaw.

Peeking from Cover, Bruce saw that Deadshot had hidden himself. That was alright, Batman's cowl still had the scanning mode on.

He knew where Deadshot was. Except now Deadshot couldn't shoot him through walls because the stealth system on his armour was in full swing.

Deadshot roadie walked from cover to cover. His big gun was gun but unlike Senior Tony Montana, he did not need his little friend to take care of this job.

Deadshot aimed his guns where he thought Batman was. The masked vigilante had disappeared from his thermal goggles, but Deadshot wasn't born yesterday.

A single sound came from behind another desk, this one not overturned.

Deadshot wasted no time and fired a lethal spray of ordinance in the Batman's way. Without a layer of marble to slow them down those Bullets would turn Batman into a memory.

If Deadshot was only so lucky.

Batman's hand came from behind the desk and fired the Batclaw at him.

The specially modified grappling extension hit Deadshot straight in the chest.

At the press of a button, the motor on the grappling gun activated and yanked the much lighter Deadshot in Batman's direction.

Batman stood up in full as Deadshot was involuntarily pulled to him.

The stumbling mercenary tried to shoot Batman and he succeeded. Unfortunately for him the Batman wasn't going to be bothered by a shot like that. The bullet had struck Bruce a glancing blow thanks to some quick footwork.

Batman quickly got to work on Deadshot, delivering a devastating blow to the masked mercenary with his armoured fist; totally smashing the thermal imagine goggles and knocking in some of Deadshot's teeth with a second blow.

Stunned by the blow, Deadshot was grabbed by Batman in a wrestling hold from behind.

Weakly, Deadshot tried to wriggle out of Batman's grip; but it was like trying to escape a boa constrictor. The Caped Crusader had the python grip.

Wrangling Deadshot towards a granite coated pillar, Batman lunged forward, slamming Deadshot's head into the bullet riddled stone.

The mercenary gasped and hit the floor limply.

Deadshot was down. Batman was bleeding from the wound inflicted on him; it seemed that it was much more than just a grazing shot.

Batman gritted his teeth. He'd been up all night, his muscles were aching from a physically demanding work period and the wound was making him lightheaded.

It was good to be a superhero.

* * *

Snake spoke to Colonel Campbell. "You didn't call me just to tell me about Ocelot and his friends."

"You're right, Snake. The reason I'm telling you this comes from Bruce Wayne himself."

"As you know, Bruce Wayne is the foremost anti-Metal Gear force in all America. Not only does he own Philanthropy, he heads nearly a dozen anti-Metal Gear and anti nuclear weapons lobby groups, paramilitary organizations and public volunteer groups."

"Not bad for a guy who spends all day chasing women and looks like he's got amnesia." Snake said.

"Look Snake, I know Bruce Wayne is . . . absent minded. But when he puts his mind to something he's like Jekyll and Hyde. He's a whole different person."

The final slide went up. It was a picture of a Metal Gear; but a Metal Gear unlike any Snake had ever seen before.

"This is Metal Gear Wayne: a conventional weapon war machine that's designed to shoot down the nuclear ordinance of other Metal Gears and to destroy Metal Gears with zero loss of human life."

"Zero loss of life?" Snake questioned.

The machine was impressive. Unlike the original Metal Gear, which was bipedal, this thing was quadrupedal.

For all intents and purposes, it looked like a bat on all fours.

The Colonel explained a bit about the machine. "The black paint is not paint at all. It's pigment free molecular alteration similar to the scales that cover a moth's wing. It never needs repainting and it deflects most conventional detection systems.

"During takeoff, the front limbs fold out into wings. When engaging another Metal Gear, the back limbs are used like claws to cut the insides of an enemy machine without killing the crew"

"You see the ears on the cockpit? Those are sonic concentration weapons. They're designed to knock nuclear weapons out of the air while destroying the firing mechanism in the nukes. Effectively turning a weapon of mass destruction into a dud."

"The sonic system can also be used to destroy the rail guns that Metal Gears use to launch nuclear warheads. Again, with no harm to the crew."

Roy Campbell got straight to the point. "Snake, you're going to Gotham City, where Bruce Wayne wants you to guard Metal Gear Wayne during the final phase of testing."

* * *

Carl Berkshire huddled behind the desk. He was crying now and rubbing his eyes. He was certain that his life was over. The sounds of fighting were done, but Carl wasn't sure that Deadshot had won.

His worst fears were confirmed when Batman entered the room dragging Deadshot by the arm.

Batman showed up just in time to witness Carl pissing his pants with fear.

Batman grinned a savage grin; like a brutal character from a German expressionist play. He seemed too terrible to be real.

The Dark Knight grasped Carl by the collar. The power of the dark avenger was total.

"Carl," came the voice like crushed gravel, "you're going to return all the money, _now._"

* * *

"And that is all you need to know about Metal Gear Wayne and the security measures that protect it."

In a comfortable smoking room with beige walls and comfy leather seats worth more than most cars, one man sat and the other stood.

The man who sat was an older man. Russian by nationality; he dressed in the distinct garb of an American cowboy. In his hand he held the remains of a good cigar. Long white hair trailed down his shoulders and for some reason his right hand seemed to twitch as if it had a mind of its own.

The man who stood was American; erudite and sophisticated but somehow childish. The standing man was completely bald and in his hand he had a laser pointed which could be calibrated to be lethal. He invented it.

Revolver Ocelot eyed Lex Luthor. As a master backstabber, the mere sight of Luthor's smarmy smile raised his hackles.

Luthor smiled that soulless and humorous smile at Ocelot. "So what do you think, Adamska; are you up to the job."

Ocelot sucked on his cigar; savouring the smoke like the film star Clint Eastwood in any classic western.

"Ocelot, I want you to steal Metal Gear Wayne."

* * *

And I hope you enjoyed that folks! I had a ton of fun writing this. I have never played Metal Gear but thanks to YouTube and the fan fiction writers on this site, I've become a fan. If you like Metal Gear, be sure to check out blacksand1's Howling_ at the Moon_.

Also, my good friend Lion in the Land has finished her story _Survivor Vampire Island_. So give that girl applause.

And I don't own Johnny Bravo or Gaston. I love them both but they're owned by Cartoon Network and Disney.

School starts soon, but never fear. I'll write a little on the weekends.

Ta

Master of teh Boot


	3. The Villains Move

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter 2: The Villains move

Disclaimer: I do not own Johnny Bravo, Gaston, Metal Gear or Batman. I make no profit from this.

* * *

Revolver Ocelot took in the sight of Lex Luthor. Chewing over Luthor's rather ambitious demands, he exhaled smoke from his cigar.

Ocelot was a man in his early sixties; a man who'd killed hundreds in his lifetime and betrayed many more. It was his natural calling in life; the perpetual Judas, the man who kept on taking people's little schemes and turning them on their heads.

In school they taught the little children to be loyal. Loyal to what was up to whoever was funding the schools. Ocelot was above it all. Betrayal was business and business was good.

Betrayal was the way of all spies; it was all a question of betraying the unimportant people first and then working your way up the food chain until you had enough money to retire.

Ocelot was loyal to one thing and one thing only: _The Big Boss. _A psychic scanning Ocelot's mind for images of the Big Boss would find images of Naked Snake all sparkly and surrounded by Hallo Kitty images.

It was to that end that Ocelot performed all of his dastardly deeds. He was infatuated by the Boss.

Standing in front of a man like Lex Luthor made Ocelot sick.

Part of it was that Lex was such a sincere man. Not honest; Luthor could tell lies with the best of them. Lex Luthor was very sincere about his contempt for the rest of the human race.

He looked at you like you were just an ant and he was a sociopathic child itching to end the life of something.

Actually it was the same way that Superman looked at Lex.

Lex Luthor was looking at Ocelot that way; as if inwardly laughing at the meaninglessness of the cowboy's existence.

Ocelot put out his cigar and reached for a new one from Luthor's cigar box. Grabbing the wealthy man's desk lighter, Revolver lit his smoke and took a deep puff of the carcinogenic smoke.

Ocelot licked his lips and looked at the man. "You want Metal Gear Wayne stolen; would you a coke and fries with that?"

Luthor smiled and chuckled a bit in his throat. The Mogul of Metropolis lifted a frosty glass of lemonade to his lips. "You don't think you can do it, Ocelot?"

Ocelot recognized the challenge that rode in on Lex's words and tone. "That's not what I said," groused the Ruskie cowboy, "What I said was something along the lines of '_it's not going to be cheap._"

Luthor nodded and eased himself into his expensive leather chair. The billionaire chose to ignore Ocelot's statement. "If you don't think you're up to the challange of stealing the pinnacle of Metal Gear technology; stealing the world's most sophisticated fighting machine, then far be it from me to blame you."

The former FOXHOUND operative's chair was across the small and cozy conference room. Really it was more like a recreation room, with the enormous plasma screen television set serving to broadcast the relevant data to Ocelot's mission.

Entering the room was Ms. Hardknocker, Lex Luthor's secretary. She was coming in with drinks and other refreshments.

The presence of all this luxury was an offense to Revolver's sensibilities as a warrior and as a Russian from a poor family. This was nothing but an elaborate way of bragging to the hired man.

Ocelot began to make it clear to his potential employer what he was looking for. "I want five times my usual rate for this kind of work. I want detailed schematics of the security at Wayne Enterprises. I also want weapons and enough ammunition for an entire army; and if you'd be so kind I want General Patton's ivory handled revolvers."

Lex took it all in stride. The price that Ocelot was asking was nothing compared to what he truly stood to gain from this operation. "Very good, my friend; you'll get what you want and not a penny less."

Ocelot still gave Luthor a hard look. He knew that he could break into Wayne Enterprises. He'd already stolen from Lexcorp and the bald bastard didn't even know who did it. Bruce Wayne's piggy bank had better watch itself.

"When you're done this" said Lex, "go and relax for a little bit. Spend some much needed time with your little bundle of joy."

Ms. Hardknocker watched the proceedings with detached interest. She was far from innocent as in the past she'd helped Lex along with multiple crimes of heinous nature. Her job was to hold the refreshments tray and kill who Lex said to kill.

Lex usually didn't tell her much. So when he made reference to a little bundle of joy, she took it to mean that Ocelot had a child. Nothing too strange in that.

What did bother Ms. Hardknocker thought was the look that came over Ocelot's face at the mention of a child of his.

The old man's face was frozen, as if he were experiencing some great physical pain. His lips were pressed tight enough together that it looked like he was trying to start fusion with his teeth.

"You tell me about my daughter," Ocelot said.

Ms. Hardknocker was starting to get afraid of the aged Special Forces fighter. She'd hung with gangsters and murderers of all stripes before finding work with Lex Luthor but nobody had ever looked as dangerous as Revolver Ocelot did now.

The old cowboy got up from his seat; the cigar in his hand was completely crushed. In what looked like a single stride he crossed the room until he loomed over Luthor like a sinister shadow or an evil omen.

"You tell me about my daughter again," began Ocelot, completely without emotion, "and I'll find you where you sleep and cut your throat."

Luthor wasn't frightened, but he was certainly subdued; his voice was much more respectful now. Antagonizing Ocelot further would only be a very bad idea.

"Now why would you want to cut my throat," said Lex. "Wouldn't you rather have a glass of lemonade?"

Lex turned and shouted to his secretary. "MS. HARDKNOCKER! Get Adamska some refreshments."

Ms. Hardknocker stared blankly at Lex.

"For Ocelot!" Lex clafrified.

Realizing Lex's meaning, the assisatnant to the billionaire went and held out the refreshments tray to Ocelot.

Ocelot snatched a lemonade from the tray without even looking. He downed the refreshing, mint infused beverage with one long pull. When he was done, he slammed down the glass down on the tray hard enough that Ms. Hardknocker nearly lost hold.

Taking a few deep breaths, Ocelot returned to his normal self. "I'll do the job."

Luthor smiled and put down his crystal lemonade glass. "You're doing yourself a great favour Ocelot. As a mercenary you were the famous _Shalashka. _With FOXHOUND you were just another brick in the wall; a petty pawn of Liquid Snake."

Ocelot kept an even expression as he watched Luthor. Turning your back on Luthor was as wise as turning your face to a spitting cobra.

"After your success with the terrorist incident at The Big Shell purification facility, I really began to admire you," Lex beamed. "Not only did you outsmart a very ruthless and vicious Russian gang boss, you also managed to come ahead of the megaolomaniac Solidus and his army of freaks."

Inwardly Ocelot was bristling. He remained keenly aware of the position of his gun. Something was up with Luthor and Ocelot didn't like it.

Unbeknownst to Ocelot, there was something moving in the ceiling, just above the ventilator grill.

Luthor kept on. "You managed to kill Fortune, which is something of a miracle in and of itself." Lex smiled and briefly glanced at Ms. Hardknocker. "Did you know that I attempted to assassinate her before she acquired that little electromagnetic shield device?"

Ocelot was getting uncomfortable; he just wanted to get out of here and get started on this job.

The unseen thing was creeping on the ceiling now, noiselessly and out of Ocelot's line of sight. It looked like a thin, metal centipede.

Lex kept chattering. "but you actually took her out and for that you have my thanks."

At that moment, the metal centipede on the ceiling jumped from where it was and wrapped itself around Ocelot's neck.

With lightning reflexes, Ocelot pulled out his gun and got the barrel right next to his neck, right at the centipede. Any normal gunman would be ill advised to point his gun at his neck, but Ocelot was far from an ordinary gunman.

The two ends of the mechanical centipede both pressed themselves to Ocelot's major arteries. There they injected something into his body before being blasted in half by a well placed bullet.

Lifelessly, the mechanical centipede fell to the ground in two pieces.

Quick as a striking serpent, Ocelot thrust the gun into Luthor's face; but Lex just smiled.

"You can have that free of charge," the Mogul of Metropolis joked.

"Luthor, you have three seconds to explain to me what that was and then if I like your answer maybe I'll just leave you as a vegetable."

Lex just smiled at Ocelot and reached for his lemonade again. Taking a sip of the frosty beverage, he hardly noticed Ms. Hardknocker holding the refreshments tray _and_ aiming a gun at Ocelot's head.

"I doubt you'll like my answer, but let's give it a go." Lex smirked.

"What I just injected into you through my most ingenious robotic creation were two pinprick sized objects that are now lodged in your carotid arteries."

Ocelot held as still as a statue.

"Each object is an experimental ceramic that as of the moment of injection is slowly dissolving in your blood. Inside each ceramic is a tiny pinprick of explosives."

Lex grinned. "It's not very much, just enough to-_pop-_rupture both your arteries and kill you."

Lex stopped smilng and he became all business. "The bombs are set to go off in seventy two hours. If you have Metal Gear Wayne in my hands by then, I'll personally deactivate the explosives.

"If I don't get the merchandise, I won't be the one to pay for it. I refuse to end up like Solidus and Liquid Snake."

Seeing that the genius billionaire had the drop on him, Ocelot lowered his gun and holstered it.

Lex smiled again; it was a horribly insincere thing. "Why are you still here? Time is wasting."

Ocelot stormed out of the room, his long coat fluttering like Batman's cape. If he was going to emerge victorious from this business then Adamska was going to have to accelerate his plans.

Reaching into his pocket, it felt strange to have a new arm when it didn't seem that long ago it had been sliced off by the thrice damned cyborg ninja. Ocelot's new arm belonged to the late Liquid Snake, who as of the Big Shell incident was starting to come back to life through Ocelot.

Not that this worried Ocelot, he'd already deployed measures to keep the dead clone of Big Boss at bay. All he had to do now was get rid of the thrice damned fool.

Ocelot pressed a button on speed dial and he waited for the other end to pick up. It was only a mundane cell phone; easily traceable.

What wasn't so mundane was the person that Ocelot was calling. If they wanted to trace this phone that' would be easy; a much harder task would be tracing the man on the other line.

After a few rings, Ocelot's ear was greeted by a sly and subtly narcissistic voice. "Riddle me this, Revolver Ocelot: who is bald, lives in Metropolis and is a big pain in the neck?"

"Nigma," Ocelot barked. The man on the other end of the line was none other than Edward Nigma, also known as the Riddler.

Considered by some to be the most tame of Batman's foes, Riddler had also done the least jail time and made the most money out of all Batman's enemies; so Nigma wasn't complaining about anything.

"Get everything on line, Luthor is impatient and asked me to move ahead of schedule," Ocelot ordered.

On the other end, Nigma laughed. "What happened? Did the number one son of Metropolis slip polonium in your drink?"

"No, but I'm going to need your help when I get to Gotham. Contact the crew and make sure that they're ready to go by the time I get there."

"They're right where you left them, Ocelot," said the Riddler, "I'll get the men in line and see if I can do something about what is it that Luthor is using to make you rush the job."

Ocelot growled, "Just have some kind of means to get rid of a ceramic coated bomb that dissolves in blood."

"Well," Riddler said, "that is a challange. You were right to hire me for this."

"Just get it done!" The Russian cowboy slammed his phone shut. He didn't trust Nigma to contact the men, nor did he trust his men to remember to bring cellphones with them, so he tried to call the troops himself.

_Gotham City, Suppertime hour_

Three men were having dinner at Boston Pizza; because even evil henchmen of Revolver Ocelot have to eat and it wasn't like their line of work afforded them much time for kicking back and relaxing.

The party which Ocelot had organized to steal the Metal Gear was comprised of these three men, Revolver Ocelot and about a small army of mercenaries imported from wherever they could be scraped up. With so many wars going on in the Near East these days, mercenaries had both increased in numer and price.

Two of the men sat at a booth, finishing up whatever they had ordered earlier. The third man in the party was at the bar. He'd done eating earlier on account of not ordering an appetizer.

Gaston and Johnny Bravo were sitting across from each other. Gaston was finishing the last of his back ribs and sipping Stella Artois while Johnny was munching his fries and trying to get phone sex on his blackberry.

The third member of the crew was a guy named Vamp, who had fought previously at Big Shell as a member of the now defunct Deadcell.

Vamp was chatting it up with two hot ladies and the ladies for the most part seemed to be enjoying it.

Johnny Bravo exhaled as his phone activities were cut short by the preposterous price that the phone sex line was demanding. It had been this way for the last four hours. Johnny just couldn't fine a phone sex company that was cheap enough to accommodate his meagre credit card.

Johnny looked over to Vamp, with his two sexy women at his mercy and he complained to Gaston. "Hey, how come tall, dark and blood sucking gets all the girls and we get nada?"

Gaston chuckled at what he saw as the pointlessness of his American friend's existence. "We' are not left with nada. A man like me gets all the girls at Boston Pizza. No one woo's the girls like Gaston."

That pissed off Johnny mightily. "Oh yeah," said Johnny, snapping up his arm with the crack of a bullwhip, "wanna bet, Frenchie?"

The French special forces soldier rolled his eyes and drank deeply from his imported beer. "I would, but I don't normally take advantage of idiots."

Johnny was just about to start fighting when Vamp diffused the situation in his own special way. "Don't fight over something as silly as women." The dark haired, pale skinned, semi-greasy Romanian said.

Vamp then leered at his two comrades and licked his lips with his abnormally long tongue. "There's always room for two in my room."

Immediatley, both Johnny Bravo and Gaston turned a shade of pale.

Johnny turned away from Vamp and shielded his gaze with his hand. The big Texan shuddered. "Oh man, I did _not_ need to see that."

Gaston put down his beer; suddenly he wasn't thirsty any more. Nobody was disgusted by Vamp like Gaston.

The three stooges of evil didn't have any more time to cause any more fun because at that moment, Vamp's phone rang.

Hesitantly, Vamp's partner's in crime turned to see who was calling. They didnt' have to wait long because the call was short.

Both of the muscular brutes knew something was up when Vamp reluctantly sent away his sexy soon to be girlfriends.

"There has been a change of plans," came his smooth, deep voice.

Johnny and Gaston were listening.

"Ocelot wants us to start now instead of tomorrow morning. Gentlemen, we go to work now."

"Sweet," bellowed Johnny Bravo. He'd spent all day with these two nuts, helping to plant random bombs across the city in case the US government got the idea intervene in the theft. He was looking forward to a little action.

"Excellent," crowed Gaston. "Now let's pay for our meals and get out of this miserable pit restaurant."

Easier said than done; after a few seconds, both Johnny and Gaston looked at each other in a worried fashion.

"What's wrong," Vamp asked.

Johnny was so embarrassed. "Ah man; I left my wallet at the motel. Hey Frenchie, can you pay for my burger and fries?"

Gaston laughed at Johnny's request. "I'd sooner burn in hell, my idiotic friend."

After a few seconds of rifling through his pockets, Gaston too came to the realization that his wallet was back at the cheap, cockroach ridden motel with a dead cat in the bathtub.

As previously stated; working for Revolver Ocelot wasn't always a glamorous business.

Back to the point, Gaston looked at Vamp with pleading in his eyes. As Gaston opened his mouth to speak, Vamp cut him off.

"No, my friends; I have already payed for my meal and drinks. I'm not your babysitter, either of you. Pay for your own food."

The vampire looking Romanian then turned and went to get the minivan.

Naturally, Vamp's muscular friends were in a bit of a pickle. Gaston tried to get them out of it by flirting with the waitress.

"So, do all the pretty girls in Gotham work here, or is it just you?"

The waitress was less then flattered. "Pay up or get in the back washing dishes."

Gaston flashed an award winning smile. "Now, I'm sure we can reach an arrangement." It was then that Gaston whipped out his gun from under his coat and opened fire, wounding the waitress's arm and killing some random diners.

Gaston's gun was a prototype machine gun with a very prominent muzzle flare suppressor; called the Brenner Arms 423-Automag Assault Rifle. The design of the gun caused its manufacturers to nickname it the automatic blunderbuss.

Falling back on his Army Ranger training, Johnny whipped out his handguns; a pair of modified ATM Automag Vs.

Johnny's guns were of a type extremely well ergonomically designed and highly lightweight. The recoil of the power fifty calibre weapon was brisk even for highly skilled shooter; but it posed no problem for Johnny Bravo's great strength.

Unlike Gaston who fired directly into the crowd of people just trying to get a semi decent meal, Johnny fired a few shots over people's heads. Then he jumped into the crowd to practice his combat techniques.

Johnny struck out with the butts of his pistols in a personalized version of the Israeli combat technique of _Krav Maga;_ an eclectic fighting style developed in war torn Israel known for its brutal takedowns and emphasis on grappling.

As Gaston finished shooting the screaming bystanders, Johnny had knocked down at least twenty people with his blindingly fast moves; quicker even perhaps than what the old Big Boss had been capable of.

As his coup de tat, Johnny prepared to strike down a traumatized university professor with a big, white beard. "Say good night, Saint Nick." Johhnny said before delivering a kick to the man's face, sending him flying across the room.

Johnny struck a dramatic pose and looked around the room. Tables had been overturned, peple had been shot, property had been damaged and Gaston looked like he could go for another round.

Johnny Bravo grinned. "Oh yeah," he said. Then he began to spin around his twin pistols in a highly elaborate manner that would leave Revolver Ocelot green with envy.

"HUH!" said Johnny as he thrust his guns into their holsters. "Man, I'm pretty." He adjusted his sunglasses.

Now freed of having to pay the bill for their food, Gaston and Johnny put away their guns and went to join Vamp in the minivan.

Playtime was over.

_Blackgate Island, Gotham Harbour_

The Joker sat in a prison cell smiling like a madman. He was by his nature a dude who smiled often.

This smile stood out in that fact that it indicated that the Joker was happy. It was rare for the Joker to be happy. In many ways, the Joker was like a narcissistic Hollywood comedian. He fed, parasite like, on the reactions of his audience; believing that his audience was dependant on him and that he was somehow entitled.

For now, the Joker knew that he was going to be free in a moment and he took pleasure that it would require the life of an idiot.

Guards walked back and forth, hauling lunatics and criminals back and forth, but the Joker never moved. He just kept smiling, sitting Indian style on the floor like a psychotic Buddha.

This was the holding area of blackgate prison, where all the non-insane prisoners from the city were kept. The Joker was being kept here until his cell at Arkham Asylum was ready.

In a nearby holding area for general prisoners, a bunch of the Joker's men were being kept captive.

The Joker's men were a loathsome lot. Each man among them was a multiple murderer, multiple rapist and various other nasty things.

There were also a few other crooks here of the nasty type; members of local Mafia and mischelaneous screw heads and bastards.

One man in the cell was a fat guy busted out of Arkham Asylum three months ago. In a schizophrenic fit, the fat guy had set fire to his apartment, burning down the whole building.

Currently, the fat schizo was moaning and clutching his ample midsection. He was mumbling and moaning. It was mostly nonsense from his painful mental illness, but there was one phrase that stood out. "The boss said he'd take away the voices," he moaned.

"Shut up," growled another prisoner, a huge man with tattoos and piercings.

The fat mental patient kept mumbling, making his fellow inmates angry. They were respectable murderers, thieves and pedophiles; they dind't want to brush shoulders with a meer mental patient.

Seeing the growing unrest in the cell, one of the guards banged on it with his club. "Hey! You bastards want to feel my fucking club?"

Silence met the guard. The Joker kept smiling. His yellow eyes took in everything while giving nothing back; like a deep hole. It was almost time.

The silence dind't last long. The obese mental patient grabbed the bars of the cell. "Please," he implored to the guard, "my insides hurt."

_BRRRRRTTTT_

It was then that the fat dude blew a long, loud fart and then dropped like he'd been shot.

Immediately, everyone in the cell backed off and started swearing.

Seeing the fat guy prone on the ground like a beached whale, the guard called for help. "Clear the holding cell! Somebody get the pepto bismol!" The guard sniffed the air. "And get some air freshner."

The Joker stood still in his cell, but internally he was laughing his head off and very, very happy. It was so easy to bribe the prison guards via a third party to let him have a whole box of plastic cutlery.

Hidden under the Joker's jacket on the floor was a hardened plastic machete, made by melting down cutlery with a lighter while everybody was asleep.

The plastic machete wasn't as good as the Joker would like, but given the rush he was in for the last week, it would have to do.

The holding cell was now empty, save for the downed fat man and a few guards. A prison medic took his sweet time examining the chunky fellow on the ground.

Joker listened from his cell. "Hey, what's that?"

Inside the holding cell, the medic blanched as he saw what looked like a cell phone implanted in his stomach.

"What the hell is that?" said a guard.

The medic got up, totally terrified. "I saw this in Iraq," he said. "Insurgents captured a man and planted a bomb in his stomach. RUN!"

The medic started running just as the cellhpone inside the prisoner's stomach rang.

Three seconds later, the bomb that Joker's men on the outside planted in a man's stomach went off. The bomb was powerful, killing the guards and the medic, but that wasn't the only effect of it.

The lights went out and the cells opened up. Inside the man's stomach was a very special bomb; an electromagnetic one which took out the electronics that held the cells shut.

In the darkened prison, the inmates took a few seconds to appreciate their newfound freedom.

Then all hell broke loose.

In seconds, everyone from pickpockets to cannibals were now free; free to rampage and escape at will.

A guard tried to run for safety, only to have his throat cut by Joker's plastic machete. The Clown Prince of crime chuckled darkly to himself. Fuck his audience; this was fun on its own.

Swinging the white and red blade, Joker slashed the throat of a passing prisoner.

Joker ran down the hall, his purple coat whooshing out behind him. It was payback time.

Joker caught up with his men. He and his team of psychopaths fled down the hall, letting nobody get in their way on the way to freedom.

Outside, the sun was just finishing slipping sunset. Joker thought that it was very fitting symbolism for the darkness that he would spread with his new venture.

On the rocky shores of Blackgate Island, Joker and his men saw the speedboat approaching. His yellow teeth flashes in a massive grin.

This would be his greatest triumph. Finally, he would get revenge on his true enemies. Not the Batman; that winged freak was fun but in the end he was nothing more than a distraction, taking Joker away from his ultimate goal.

Joker's goal at the end of this game was the new Metal Gear and the neck that he would cut would be that of the Patriots.

They made the Joker, and now the Joker would unmake the Patriots.

* * *

That's all people! I love you for reading this :D I am glad that you turned up for my humble story. The sequence with the Joker at the end is a parody of _The Dark Knight_. Ocelot has a daughter in this, an OC. She will appear later in this story and trust me, you'll like her.

So, did anybody spot the reference to _Escape from New York_?

My use of the word "semi-greasy" can be credited to Blacksand1. Read her awesome Metal Gear Story, _Howling at the Moon_. It's a great story that any Metal Gear fan can sink their teeth into.

Tune in next time when we get back to Solid Snake and Batman. Read and review. And remember that I am open to requests, but no guarantees that I'll say yes. We can talk.

Ta

Master of teh Boot


	4. Wayne and David

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter Three: Wayne and David

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or Metal Gear. They are awesome but not mine.

_

* * *

_

Ten hours before Joker's escape

When Lucius Fox walked into the fifty sixth floor of Wayne Tower, he did not expect the place to be utterly torn to pieces. It was like walking onto the set of a Paul Verhoven but with live ammunition instead of blood squibs.

Lucius looked around at the office with a look of total disbelief. Some of the bullet holes in the walls were still smoking. The President of Wayne Enterprises simply could not suspend his disbelief at all this destruction.

Before he could get onto his cell phone and call for security, two such guards strode briskly past him with a dangerous criminal in handcuffs. In the rear, the janitorial staff was already hard at work cleaning up the debris and putting out any fires that had started.

Lucius couldn't specifically place where he'd seen that man in a red jumpsuit before but the getup was familiar to him.

A new thought then entered Lucius's mind as he watched the two security guards, each one a former mixed martial artist, haul away the unconscious villain. Lucius has no idea how he was going to explain this to Mr Wayne.

Bruce could be a bit dense at times, but he wasn't just going to take it very well when he found out that part of his precious tower was destroyed. Last year when Bane went on a rampage here, Bruce nearly wept for the destruction of the really cool fountain on the first floor.

Lucius realized he was being foolish. Bruce was a very easy going guy; there was no danger from him.

With that, the second in command of Wayne Enterprises dialled the phone number of Gotham's favourite son.

A few rings later and none other than the good Master Bruce picked up the phone. "Hello," came the billionaire's cheerful, bubbly voice.

"Bruce," Lucius said, "we've got trouble on the fifty-sixth floor."

"Trouble," echoed Bruce, "I hope it's nothing too serious up there."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Wayne, we have a major problem up where _English Petroleum_ rent their offices from us. The entire floor looks like a warzone."

"Really? Well, that does sound like a problem."

Lucius was glad that Bruce couldn't see this. This wasn't the way that he'd like for his boss to start his day. "Actually Bruce, I'm fairly confident that I can get a repair crew here and have this place ready to work again before lunchtime."

Bruce paused for a moment on the other end of the line before resuming. "Are you sure of that? It doesn't look so bad to me. I think we could go for before lunch time if we hurry."

This confused Lucius for a moment. "Sorry, where are you right now, Mr. Wayne?"

"I'm on this floor, you can't miss me." On cue, Bruce Wayne appeared from behind a group of janitors, waving happily at Lucius while holding his phone to his ear.

Lucius merely shook his head a bit. Sometimes Bruce was like a child; but in a good way. Him being around sort of brightened people's day with his smile and his tendency to buy strangers expensive electronics. Seeing how his boss was actually present, he decided to hang up the line and talk to the man face to face.

Bruce Wayne was a large man; long gone was the awkward teenager with a skinny body and large head. Now he was an awkward, spaced out grown man who just had stopped caring about what people thought of him a long time ago. Everywhere he went, he just walked around like he was sleepwalking.

Bruce was a fit man; big enough to be strong and lean enough to be fast. The billionaire was muscular, but not in the inhuman way that Johnny Bravo and Gaston were. He possessed broad shoulders, thick pillar like legs and small waist. He still had a big head but the rest of his body had caught up.

Those powerful muscles now threatened to burst the spandex workout shirt he was wearing. Bruce was dripping sweat, had a towel around his neck and was being escorted by a very physically attractive looking female fitness trainer.

"Morning Lucius," Bruce chirped in his bubbly voice. "I hope your morning hasn't been spoiled by this little thing."

"Not at all, Bruce," replied the second in command at Wayne Enterprises. He then ventured forth with a little question. "Do you have any idea what happened here this morning?"

Bruce thought for a moment, the small frown he wore seemed foreign to his face. "Well, I had a hard time sleeping last night so I decided that I might as well go to work early."

"That so?" commented Mr. Fox.

Lucius's boss nodded. "That's right Lucius. So I got to work but it was early. Nobody was here except me; which wasn't totally a bad thing."

Lucius nodded and waited for his boss to continue.

"So I was there alone at the office at three in the morning with nothing to do. I just did what anybody else would do; I went up to the top floor and started to break dance on the roof."

The business leader blinked owlishly. He wasn't sure exactly of what he'd heard from the man in front of him. "I'm sorry. Did you say break dancing?"

"Oh absolutely, Lucius," Bruce gushed, holding up his hands for emphasis; he passed his water bottle to the sexy fitness trainer. "Ever since I took up break dancing two years ago, my life has totally changed. It's like all of a sudden I have more energy and less stress."

At times like these it was just best to go along with whatever insane thing Bruce Wayne said or did. "I see, Mr. Wayne. So what did you do after break dancing on the roof?" Just saying the phrase made Lucius feel strange.

Bruce went on with his story. "Well, you see after that I started to get tired from all that break dancing and the gravel on the roof was very uncomfortable to dance on; especially when I had to do rolls and such moves like that."

The sexy fitness trainer hung by Bruce's side and ran a hand through his long, gorgeous black hair. It seemed as if she was used to Bruce's outlandish behaviour.

"Well, after all that dancing I needed a snack so I went to find a vending machine."

Lucius checked his watch. He hoped that Bruce was going to wrap this up soon.

"Well, I went to the vending machine but I didn't find any healthy snacks. That's my first priority today. Then I went to another vending machine but it ate my money. I am a billionaire, but I sort of lost my temper; it's the principle of the thing. Anyway, I sort of ended up knocking over the vending machine and I had to put it back up again so—

"Pardon me, Mr. Wayne, but I think you're getting off topic."

Bruce stopped himself, slightly embarrassed. "Sorry Lucius"

The fitness trainer then spoke up; speaking in what was a fake Russian accent. "Oh Bruce, you are like child, da?"

Bruce hugged the not-Russian fitness trainer to him. "Ah yes, that's my Tatyana. Lucius, have you met Tatyana. She's my new fitness trainer."

The black man extended a hand to the "fitness trainer." Actually, Lucius thought that she was a prostitute, but he kept that thought to himself. "A pleasure to meet you, miss."

Tatyana took Lucius's hand with a surprisingly strong grip. She was strong, no two ways about it. She may not be a prostitute after all. Also her hands were strangely calloused for some reason; most unlike a sex trade worker.

Tatyana spoke to Lucius in her faux accent. "Pleasure to meet you, Meester Fox." She sounded exactly like a villain from a James Bond movie.

"Now that you two have met, perhaps you'd like to hear the rest of how I found my building in ruins," Bruce popped out again.

Lucius had no objections and neither did Tatyana.

"Well, after finding no snacks, I started to hear noises. And what should I find in the almost deserted floor was none other than the Batman. Can you believe that?"

"Anyway, Batman was interrogating some poor sap. He was so scary that he was making me want to turn tail and run."

"Then all of the sudden, this fellow with guns appears and starts fighting Batman."

Lucius inquired. "What happened then?"

"I ran like hell," laughed Bruce. "I'm a lover, not a fighter. As soon as guns are involved I'm gone; done like dinner."

Realizing that he'd wasted enough time, Bruce said to his right hand man. "Well, I'm going to take a nap. Too much caffeine last night. Push all my scheduled appointments an hour ahead, will you?"

"Naturally, Mr. Wayne."

"Good," Bruce flashed another winning smile. "And while you're at it, kick out English Petroleum from my building. They make me feel icky."

"Right away, Mr. Wayne."

Without further ceremony, Bruce turned away from Lucius and took the "fitness trainer" with him. "Bye Lucius," he called over his shoulder.

When they'd gone a sufficient distance away from Lucius and any potential eaves droppers, Bruce's girl dropped the false Russian accent. "Wow Bruce, you really do need me to keep you from looking gay." She was referring to how high pitched his secret identity voice was compared to his Batman voice.

Bruce's childish expression changed to an annoyed scowl. "Shut up, Selina. That was a terrible accent you used. You obviously haven't been using the language tapes I sent you."

Selina Kyle, a.k.a. the Catwoman just smirked at Bruce and hugged him tight as they walked towards his office. "No, I haven't. I just watched a _Red October_ a lot of times."

"That's a horrible book," Bruce kept scowling, "utterly full of inaccuracy."

Selina couldn't help but be amused by how stiff her boyfriend was. "I was talking about the movie, dummy."

"I can never trust adaptations of books; they never work out."

"Do you even watch movies, Bruce?" Selina inquired.

Bruce shook his head as he punched the button on the elevator. A little flashing light indicated that the elevator would soon come for the two. "No actually," Bruce confessed. "But I do enjoying watching the short films of the Brothers Quay."

"Figures," Selina muttered as the ornate elevator doors opened and they stepped in. "Only screw head films would be good for a screw head like you, Bruce."

"Says the woman who wears a leather cat suit at night and beats bikers within an inch of their lives."

Selina glowered at Bruce, taking in the barely noticeable smirk that had formed on his usually stern features. "Don't knock my hobbies, Bruce; given the fact that you also wear leather at night and used to hang out with a young boy all the time."

Bruce ignored the jab and was forgiven of forming a comeback as the golden elevator doors opened.

The office of Bruce Wayne was lavish yet strangely default by appearance. The hardwood floors and solid oak desk must have cost a fortune and the walls were painted with some rare paint that had to be exported from a small factory in Kazakhstan; but this could have been the office of any CEO or business man. Absolutely nothing in this office spoke of any interests or personality traits of Bruce Wayne.

It was the office of a generic rich playboy.

Getting behind the desk, Bruce addressed his voluptuous girlfriend. "I'm going to need you to leave Selina. I have work that has to stay secret ever from you."

"Not even a 'please?" Salina's voice was playful, but there was no mistaking that she was partly pissed off by Bruce's request.

"Yes," said Bruce as he began unfolding his personal computer. "I'm working on a government contract that requires higher than top secret security."

"Sure Bruce, I'll go." Selina turned away from Bruce. She was more than a little pissed now.

As her hand touched the golden doorknob, Bruce's voice met her ears.

"Selina," his voice had a pleading quality to it. Slowly, the lady who was Catwoman turned around. This wasn't his stern "do as I say or die" Batman voice. It was much closer to the soft, musical voice of the billionaire playboy he pretended to be.

Slowly, the dark haired woman turned to the man that was Gotham's protector. In those eyes, she could still see bits of the lost child he once was.

"Please Selina," he begged, "hug me."

Selina thought about it, making sure to trick Bruce into thinking that she wasn't going to hug him. And just when he was about to beg again, even more pitifully, she jumped at him and wrapped her arms around his muscular form.

In return, Bruce hugged her tight, feeling the whiplash lean muscle on her.

Bruce loved Selina; she was the only woman in the world as screwed up as he was. "Maybe I'll see you tonight," Bruce whispered.

"Maybe I won't sleep with another guy tonight."

That just burst Bruce's bubble. His eyes snapped open like somebody jabbed him in the ass with a needle.

Selina laughed and broke the huge, running a delicate finger down his built chest. "Bruce, I know how you feel about me. As the Batman you can have no personal relationships or human contact in any way."

By now, Bruce's face was frozen into a mask of pissed off-ness worthy of its own emoticon.

"I respect the fact that commitment scares you Bruce, but you're going to be that way you also have to respect my lack of commitment."

Bruce's right eye was twitching. He looked like he'd just eaten a habanera pepper without being ready for it.

Selina began to strut it out of the room, shaking her ass for Bruce's benefit. "See you 'round Bruce!" She laughed as she left the room.

Bruce was gritting his teeth as the last of her left the room. And when he was sure nobody could see him, he turned around and punched a hole in the wall.

Master Wayne threw himself into his spin chair, hoping that the spinning would take him mind off of how mad that lady made him.

Good old Bruce knew for a long time that Selina slept around. He protested every time that his enemies would use their relationship against them, but Selina would hear none of it. She didn't take orders from anybody, not even the goddamn Batman.

Like Bruce, Selina was a bizarre animal person, living outside of society and on the edge of sanity. The world had been unfair to Bruce and Selina and so in each their own way, they were now showing the world the mother of all unfair takedowns.

Like it or not, Bruce knew that Selina was the only person that could get away with saying and doing these things to him. It was like he despised the chaos she brought to his life and welcomed it at the same time.

First impressions are almost always wrong. Batman's first impression of Catwoman was that she was a fucking bitch.

His first impression turned out to be quite correct but he'd never guessed that the cat burglar in a sexy leather suit would become his main squeeze.

After a couple of minutes of spinning in his chair like a top, Bruce's anger had gone away enough that he could now contact Solid Snake about the mission.

One bittersweet consolation for Bruce as he searched for Snake's frequency on the Codec was that when Selina slept with another guy tonight (if she did) she'd probably scream the name "Bruce" as she made love.

And god help the poor sucker she slept with if Batman got his hands on the bastard's address.

* * *

Solid Snake stood on the camoflaged airfield of the hidden military base which was now the property of Wayne Enterprises and the headquarters of the anti-Metal Gear group _Philanthropy_.

Bruce Wayne had purchased this military base from the government back in nineteen ninety-five; the same year that a rookie named Solid Snake made a name for himself by taking down Big Boss.

During the time that had elapsed, Bruce Wayne has used this bunker as a place to store all kinds of confidential Wayne Tech devices and house his most secure research facilities; the very same facilities which produced many of the gadgets that formed the arsenal of the Batman.

It was here in fact that the technology behind Solid Snake`s sneaking suit was developed; which was later improved and formed the basis for what was now Batman`s armoured costume.

Snake was currently preparing to depart for Gotham with Otacon. The pair of them would be departing very soon in a decommissioned C-17 transport airplane that would haul all the gear that they would possibly need to safeguard the Metal Gear before it would be transported to the Cheyenne Mountain Facility in Colorado for final testing.

This would be a crucial mission since _Wayne_ was a machine of such technical sophistication and perfection that it made Metal Gear Ray look like a beaten up old _Stanley Streamer_ from the early days of motor transport.

Potentially, _Wayne_ was a Metal Gear designed to spell the end of the nuclear era much as barbed wire and the machine gun had ended the era of cavalry.

Unlike other machines of war, the design of Metal Gear Wayne had received great input from low level military personal and the handful who had actually fought against Metal Gears; the kind of lowly grunts that most enlightened military engineers would sooner spit on than shake hands with.

It was hoped that with the advice of the people who lived and breathed practicality, that the theory behind the new war machine could be more in connect with reality than theory usually tended to be.

Currently, Snake and Otacon were loading up the last of their equipment. Up the loading ramp and into the belly of their airplane, Hal Emmerich drove a fork lift loaded with a massive crate of automatic weapons of several varieties.

Normally there would be crews to assist the men with such activities, but their needs were meagre and most of the important gear never left the plane; Otacon`s computer and communication machinery and the like.

They`d already loaded the ammo and other miscellaneous tools for the mission, all that they'd need would be a refuelling of their plane and the all clear from Mr. Wayne.

Reaching for a cigarette and his lighter, Snake's smoke was delayed as the distinctive beep of his codec went off.

Snake grunted with annoyance and activated the ultra secure communication system designed by Naomi Hunter.

_Aux_

_**Call**_

_Select_

_Snake: Identify yourself?_

_Bruce Wayne: Snake, how are you? Did you get that box of Cuban cigars I sent you?_

_Snake: Bruce Wayne?_

_Bruce Wayne: Yes, it's me Snake. Were the cigars good? They're Commissioner Gordon's favourite brand. _

_Snake: Yeah, those were good cigars._

_Bruce Wayne: Oh, that's good. It's always so hard picking out cigars when you're a non-smoker. Speaking of which, you really should quit, Snake. It's very unhealthy. _

_Snake: Uh, Mr. Wayne, about the mission . . . _

_Bruce Wayne: Oh yes! The mission that I'm giving to you. _

_Snake: We're all set to go. I just need to hear how you're going to get me and Otacon into Wayne Enterprises without being ID'd. _

_Bruce Wayne: Well Snake, just call me "genius" because I've thought of everything._

_Snake: Genius._

_Bruce Wayne: Yup. My plan is for you to land your airplane at an airfield which is owned by me personally._

_Snake: A private airfield?_

_Bruce Wayne: That's right, Snake; I'll send you the coordinates once you're in the air. After you land you'll be able to make use of the disguises that I've ordered packed along with your regular equipment. As a spy worthy of James Bond, I'm sure that you're no stranger to disguises._

_Snake: I know a thing or two about it. _

_Bruce Wayne: Good. Because the majority of my employees don't know that you work for me and fewer still know that you're alive. _

_Snake: I'm aware of that, Mr. Wayne. _

_Bruce Wayne: There's a Goth convention going on at Wayne Tower the day you're scheduled to arrive. You and Otacon could disguise yourselves as a couple of Goths. _

_Snake: No. Just—no. _

_Bruce Wayne: Sorry; it was just a suggestion. _

_Snake: Just leave things to me, Mr. Wayne. _

_Bruce Wayne: Well then, Snake, you have my permission to start. Remember that if you want to contact me, you just have to hit the "review" button. _

_Snake: Review button?_

_Bruce Wayne: Of course; it's the little button on the bottom of the page. You review and I'll reply to that review. I enjoy constructive criticism but I don't like flames. _

_Snake: Flames?_

_Selina Kyle: Who's your friend with the sexy voice, Brucie?_

_Bruce Wayne: Selina, get the fuck off this thing!_

_Selina Kyle: Or what, Bruce; are you going to spank me?_

_Snake: Who is this?_

_Selina Kyle: I'm his girlfriend. _

_Bruce Wayne: She's not my girlfriend!_

_Selina Kyle: So what are we, Bruce; friends with benefits?_

_Bruce Wayne: Selina, don't bring this shit up now. I thought I told you to leave!_

_Selina Kyle: Come on Bruce, nothing is sexier to me than seeing you all hot and bothered like this. _

_Snake: I think I'd better go now. _

_Bruce Wayne: Yes, that's probably a good idea. See you in Gotham, Snake. _

_Salina Kyle: Maybe we can have a three way with your buddy, Snake; if you're not too uptight about that kind of shit. _

_Bruce Wayne: Selina, I love you but if I never see you again it'll add ten years to my life. _

_Selina Kyle: Meow. _

Snake ended the Codec call. That fucking Bruce Wayne; the man should have been included in the cast of the movie _Dumb and Dumber_. Everything about that man was all about dames or having fun.

Luckily the world had men like Solid Snake in it so that men like Bruce Wayne could sleep at night.

"Otacon," Snake called to his good buddy

"Yeah, Snake?"

"Get into the pilot's seat. I'll get the rest of the gear. We move out in five."

Otacon jumped off the fork lift and called out to his friend. "Snake, don't forget my box of anime."

"Sure Otacon," Snake grunted, "I'll get your weird cartoons."

"It's anime, not cartoons!"

Snake shrugged his shoulders at Hal's outburst. He was never one for this weird Japanese shit. For him, the only cartoon worth a damn was Bugs Bunny.

_

* * *

_

The girl was young and the house was lavish. Lavish wasn't the term she'd use to describe the house because she'd spent her whole life there.

Adleta Voronov had spent her entire life in this one house. Never once in all her fifteen years had she ever gone outside as far as the front yard.

The girl was young and this house for all intents and purposes was her universe. When she was sick, her father tended to her. When she inevitably required education, it was her father who homeschooled her.

In fact, her father never ceased to stress just how difficult it was to raise a child and how lucky she was to have a daddy who cared like he did. The man acted like he deserved a medal.

Materially he had always provided for his daughter. Emotionally their relationship wasn't so solid.

Love wasn't exactly what young Adleta felt for her father. Their relationship was similar to that of the farmer and the rain. The farmer needed the rain to water his crops, but the rain might just as easily come at the wrong time and utterly cause his crops to rot in storage; rendering the whole growing season to pot.

Currently, Adleta was sifting through a Russian language book of military history. This book was about the events known as Peacewalker; the codename for the world's first true taste of the terror of nuclear walking tanks.

Exhaling with boredom, Adleta gently put aside her book along with the rest. Books were never something in short supply around here. Virtually all of her education came from the books that her father brought for her.

An entire wall of her room was taken up a by a bookshelf. The books themselves were in both English and Russian, which Adleta was fluent in both languages, as well as a few other tongues.

Appearance wise, Adleta Voronov was rather pretty. Her head was full of dark brown hair which seemed to turn red when it caught the light a certain way.

Her skin was pale and nearly translucent; her complexion made her feel like the Frankenstein monster. Fifteen years living in the same house with all the windows bricked up and all the doors made to withstand bombs never really leaves much opportunity to get a tan.

The girl's lips were full but extremely pale. Adelta thought her lips looked like a pair of sickly worms pressed together. When she disappointed him, her father never hesitated to exploit her insecurity about her lips.

The girl looked around her room. It was a large room, lavishly and tastefully furnished; it was impossible to say that she didn't love the four poster bed she slept on.

The house was originally designed to have large windows. A massive five foot by five foot window was supposed to be right by her bed so that she ought to be woken by the sun every morning.

Given that all the windows were bricked up, Adleta did what she could. The bricked windows were normally covered by curtains but she liked to take some of the art materials her father supplied and paint exotic vistas on them.

Today, Adleta had painted a lovely Alaskan sunset using only chalk. Normally she took great pleasure in painting the bricks without her father knowing, but today it just served to make her even more depressed.

Behaving like a tired old woman instead of a fifteen year old girl, Adleta sighed again. The reason for her greater than usual melancholy was that today of all days would be the time of her escape.

While her father was out on his latest scheme to serve the will of Big Boss, she would be finally breaking her way into the free world.

Snapping out of her funk, Adleta reached for a homemade backpack. She'd never left this house so there was never a need for anything to carry books in.

Like the drawings on the bricks, this backpack was created without her father's consent. If he found out about either thing, he'd be furious

The first to go into the bag was a small revolver. In this house they were as common as cutlery; daddy dearest absolutely insisted that his little girl learn the warlike arts.

Soon into the bag was a box of ammunition for the revolver. Following that was a change of clothes.

Before dear Adleta could finish packing for her grand journey into life, the house phone rang.

Adelta immediately dropped everything and went to answer the telephone. Her father was most anal about the phone being answered right away.

She didn't have to wonder if it was her father. The phones were specifically programmed to only dial his cell phone. His rationale was that he didn't want his little bundle of joy being chased by boys.

"_Hello, fathew,_" Adleta spoke in her father's native language. It was after all the language of this particularly screwed up household.

"_Hello, katusha" _came the rough vociferation of Adamska Voronov, better known as Revolver Ocelot. Next to his gravelly intonation, Adleta's voice sounded like a kitten mewling.

Like any good father, Ocelot inquired after the important things. "_Did you finish the homework I gave you?_"

Adleta spoke again, fighting and failing to suppress the speech impediment of hers that prevented her from properly saying an "r" sound. "_Yes I did, fathew._"

On the other end, Ocelot chuckled. "_Good girl of mine. I'm sorry that I couldn't be there with you right now._"

Adleta remained motionless where she stood. "_Yes, fathew. I did finish all my wok."_

Ocelot paused to suck in a bit of breath. "_Right now I have to deal with that mu'dak Lex Luthor. After my mission I will return home. But just because I'm gone doesn't mean that you can slack off like a little suka."_

Adleta flinched at Ocelot's use of swear words to describe her but said nothing. Her complaints would only fall on deaf ears.

"_Adleta, that means I'm going to be sending you homework and lessons via your e-mail. If I find you using your computer for free time then you'll be in big trouble. I'll slap you hard enough that your dead mother will feel it._"

The girl was young and she was shaking. Her body and mind were in flux and the seeds of hatred her father planted in her were starting to sprout. Now of all times it was hardest not to swear at the pompous old coot and insult him and his precious Big Boss. _Piz'da_

All she said was the affirmative. "_Da, atyets_."

Ocelot chuckled at his daughter's subservience. "_When I get back, you can even listen to some pop music; but only if you're a good girl."_

"_Yes, papa_."

Excellent, said the revolver wielding gunman. "_I'll see you later, Adelta. Dasvy Danya_."

"_Dasvy Danya, fathew_."

Ocelot hung up.

By now, his daughter was free to express her anger. Squeezing the phone in her hand, Adleta just wanted to crush it in her hand.

She wanted to throw the thing against the wall, but she realized that would do nothing. Like a wimp, she put the phone on the tabletop and went to finish packing.

She was young and today of all days Revolver Ocelot would no longer control daughter Ocelot.

* * *

Thank you all, sorry for the lack of updates :D But thanks for your patience. I had a shitload of fun writing this chapter. I needed it after the stress of midterms. Adleta is totally an OC and I will do my damndest to make her not a Sue. You have my word.

As for translations, Da is yes. Atyets is father. Piz'da is pussy or cunt. Dasvy Danya is goodbye. Mu'dak is asshole (which Lex is.) Suka is bitch.

For those looking for action, fear not; in the next chapter the attack on Gotham starts. We'll meet the Joker and his army of psychos. Riddler will activate the bomb that will render Gotham Helpless and there will be more of Snake and Batman.

Here's a little preview.

"_And for the love of God Gaston," Ocelot yelled, "Don't let Johnny Bravo near any TV cameras or we'll be the laughingstock of the nation!"_

_Gaston nodded, "Yes Sir," _

_It was easier said than done. _

_Gaston looked to see Johnny trying to woo a whore. _

"_Howdy Street Walking Mamma," said Johnny in his dulcet tones. He flexed his muscles for emphasis. "Doesn't a bod this pretty deserve a discount for your fine services?"_

"_Hit the road Jack," said the whore. _

Ta

Master of the Boot

Unknown Location


	5. Into the Past

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter 4: A Glimpse into the Past

Disclaimer: I do not own Metal Gear or Batman. They belong to DC and Hideo Kojima.

_

* * *

_

Gotham City, 1994

_Big Boss hated Gotham City. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for a very good reason. Viewed from airplane, Gotham looked like a darkly magnificent Gothic dream world. The city's mighty spires rivalled in height and grandeur those in greater Metropolis. It was an economic powerhouse with a greater demand for office space than Tokyo. _

_This however was the world of the wealthy and the powerful; their world was divorced from that of the average citizen of Gotham. _

_This place wasn't a city at all, it was a Petri dish. It was here that the Patriots intended to be the breeding ground for their ideal soldiers. _

_Since the seventies and the rise of Major Zero and his group the Patriots, Gotham had slowly been allowed to fester. Zero's logic went that the finest soldiers could only be picked out from the most violent and depraved criminals. _

_Big Boss stopped his car at a red light and patiently waited for the green light to flash. Idly, he gazed around at the city's architecture. It was like looking into a mess of plants which had grown to wild and tangled and were now killing each other. _

_For years now the Gotham zoning board had largely been a showpiece. In order to produce bad people; they needed to live in a bad environment. Every imagineable architectural style and building type were jammed in as if fighting for every scrap of available space. Apartment buildings had been constructed without fire escapes or working plumbing. Everybody just pissed in the stairwell. _

_As the light was about to turn green, Big Boss heard a tap at his car window. It was a mugger aiming a gun at him. _

_Sighing, Big Boss rolled down the window on his modest vehicle. The mugger made the usual demands; your money or your life. All he got was a lightning fast blow to the throat from Big Boss. _

_The aging legend smirked; after all these years he still had it. Seeing that the light was now green, he took off; not before backing his car over the would be robber several times, leaving behind a mangled corpse. _

_Big Boss drove towards Gotham harbour, on his way passing through one of the city's nicer areas, kept safe by policemen more brutal than the KGB. Boss drove on, poor people and minorities were not allowed in this area of town. _

_Passing into one of the bad areas, Boss passed a band of men in blood stained smiley face masks standing around something. His lone eye didn't see what they were looking at before they receded into the mists of the rear view window. _

_Big Boss was starting to enter the part of town known as the narrows. Originally designed to be a source of low income housing for the city's poor, it instead became a source of low quality housing for crackheads, whores, thieves and people who had nowhere else to go. _

_The crowded streets of the narrows were evocative of historical films Big Boss had seen, where a city was twisted, crowded and built with no regards for the safety or comfort of its inhabitants. Except for the cars and vehicles, this might have been Europe in the height of the dark ages. _

_The inhabitants of the narrows scurried away from Big Boss's headlights like the subterranean monsters of HG Wells, "The Time Machine_."_ The future was now and it was made of the same shit as the past. _

_While he drove through to the docks and out of the narrows, Big Boss saw at least four rapes, three murders and a dozen other crimes. _

_He was almost at the docks now but the twisted city defied the instructions he'd been given. It wasn't that he forgot; Big Boss never forgot a thing. It was the city's fault. _

_Spotting a local streetwalker, Big Boss thought he'd ask for directions. _

_The whore was leaned up against a lamppost, puffing on a cigarette and wearing an outfit that balanced sluttiness with insulation against Gotham's brisk night. _

_Her eyes lit up as she saw the car approach her. Running a hand through her hair to get it just right and hitching her skirt up; she made herself presentable for a potential client. _

_A one eyed man in military uniform opened the window to talk to her. Excellent; soldiers usually didn't care as much if they were married. "What can I do for you, stranger?" the whore questioned, careful to use a voice perfectly calibrated to lure men in. She'd been working these streets a lot of years and she knew all the tricks. _

"_I'm trying to find dock number seventeen on Parkinson's. Do you know where it is?"_

_The whore thoughtfully leaned over to show some more cleavage, even though the sag was really starting to show on her ta-tas. _

_Big Boss winced slightly as the fifty year old prostitute leaned over to give him a better view; her face heavily lined from years of smoking. _

_Finally the woman answered. "It's nearby, not far at all; I can show you a good time before you need to be anywhere."_

_Big Boss had to swallow the bile. The woman must have been very attractive forty years ago. Her skin was chalky, her breasts were withered and her teeth looked like she'd stolen them from a pirate. Did they even have dentists in Gotham City?_

_She looked like a freaky witch out of a Tim Burton film. _

_He turned her down. "No, just tell me where it is?"_

"_I can make it worth your while, it won't cost you much?" The whore twisted this way and that, unknowingly disgusting Big Boss. With the exception of Eva, he wasn't into women. _

"_The dock, lady," Big Boss said with more force. _

_The whore stiffened, disappointed over the loss of income. "It's down the way you're coming." Faggot, she thought to herself. _

_Big Boss easily detected the whore's attitude. "You know, you're too old for this job. There has to be other work in a city this big; work that doesn't involve venereal disease."_

"_Too old," exclaimed the whore. "I'm only twenty five." Then she winked and flashed a grin at Big Boss. _

_Twenty five? Impossible. Big Boss scanned the street walker and despite her ghastly appearance, he could find no traces of grew hair or hair dye. _

_Shocked by how old she looked, Big Boss pulled a five out of his pocket. "Thanks for the directions," he mumbled before speeding off. _

_The prostitute was much too pleased with the five to care about Big Boss being so judgemental. _

_On a quiet and lonely dock, a man waited. Unlike Big Boss, the car he leaned against was a high end sports car which would likely be seen being driven by a corporate billionaire or a celebrity. _

_Inside the car were two thugs cradling machine guns. They really wouldn't do too much good against the greatest soldier of the twentieth century, but the mysterious stranger felt naked without some muscle with him. _

_The man's clothing was dark and he stood in such a way that his face was hidden by the shadows; kept away from the light. _

_The man had arrived early just to meet with the great old soldier. Inside his pockets, his hands were twitching as if the man himself were possessed of a great restless energy. _

_Despite the activity of his hands, the man leaning up against the luxury car seemed in every way relaxed and, in a way, oily. _

_Big Boss pulled up in his car and killed the engine. He was here to meet a man and right now that man's back was to him. The lights of Big Boss's car illuminated the man._

_It wasn't until Big Boss turned off the headlights and shut off the engine that the man slowly and deliberately turned around as if he feared the light. _

_Certainly the man Big Boss was meeting with looked like a creature of darkness. A great dark overcoat hid his slender frame; billowing in the wind almost like a pair of wings. _

_Underneath the overcoat was a jacket and suit combination which at first appeared black but was actually a shade of dark purple. _

_In the darkness embrace, the man met eyes with Big Boss. A slow grin oozed across his face. His eyes were hidden by the play of shadow and light so that he looked like the grim reaper. _

_Big Boss started to walk towards the man. "Jack" was his codename; one of the most common names in America. As to his real name, Boss hadn't the faintest clue as to what that might be or where he really came from. _

_The information that Boss has seen about Jack was scarce. There was nothing wrong or bad with his upbringing; no childhood traumas or anything bad like that. _

_When the Patriots found him, he was, despite his normal childhood, diseased, forgotten and utterly alone. _

_It was Major Zero who gave this man a purpose and a chance to hone his skills towards useful ends. _

_Big Boss stopped about ten feet away from "Jack."_

_Jack just kept on staring at Big Boss, saying nothing at all. What felt like an eternity passed before the servant of Zero finally spoke. "I brought you a little gift, Boss." _

_Casually, he threw a small plastic bag at the Boss, which he caught. Looking inside the bag, Big Boss saw an old photograph of a women in a military uniform. _

_The Boss. The memory of this woman made Big Boss's heart tighten with emotion. He'd murdered that women to get his present title; something that still haunted him in his every waking and sleeping moment. _

"_It's the real thing," said Jack. "A picture of her; the mother of special forces."_

_Big Boss immediately closed the plastic bag before he lost control._

"_It wasn't easy to get but I knew you'd like it." Jack's words sounded friendly; too friendly in fact. They sounded like they were forced. _

"_What do you want?"_

"_Ah," Jack laughed, "the direct approach. I admire that in a man with one eye." Jack placed one hand over his eye in imitation of Big Boss's eye patch and began laughing._

_It was a horrid sound, scratchy and grating. That alone made Big Boss want to put a bullet in the back of this guy's head. _

_Jack's mirthless laughter slowly died down and the grin shrunk a few degrees but did not fully leave. _

_Jack's job in Gotham was to keep the American Mafia in line with Zero's ambitions and desires. Since the city's descent into criminality and lunacy, the Mafia in Gotham had grown wealthy and powerful beyond anything seen since the height of Capone in the twenties. _

_Jack had successfully infiltrated the Mafia and was now a high level enforcer who manipulated the ruling families of Gotham like a warped chess master moving the pieces to the will of the zero entity. _

_Having worked with the Mafia for some years, Jack was paranoid about being spied upon and he let it be known to Big Boss. "Were you followed?"_

_Big Boss took his time and gave Jack a confident smirk. "I wasn't." He left it at that. _

_Jack was not entirely satisfied with Big Boss's assurance but decided to open up with his proposal. "It's about the leader of a certain group of people who love their country." _

_Boss knew who Jack was talking about. _

"_The zero, he's been around a long time. He's a tired old man." One of the corners of Jack's mouth twitched upwards slightly. "He's getting a little senile."_

_Boss's reply was measured. "If there's a problem with Zero then I'll deal with it. Technically I outrank you in the organization." I was true, as one of the patriots; Big Boss was ideally suited to bring down the corrupt system of the patriots. _

_Jack tried to make Big Boss see reason. "Boss, your problems are my problems."_

_Big boss reached for a cigar as he reluctantly listened to the slimy man before him. _

"_I know that things with you and your British friend haven't been so great as of late. I know that you and your friends are all at each other's throats. Even the medic acts like she wants to open up your throat."_

_It was true, the Patriots were now suffering from the same fault lines and petty grievances which had torn apart the Philosophers after the second world war. Success was making them corrupt, bloated and paranoid. Big Boss no longer counted himself as a Patriot but he too in his own way had grown corrupt and inflexible with power; he just didn't admit it to himself. _

_Jack's silky, sly voice continued. "I know about the soldiers without borders. I know that you still want to create your own personal heaven, outside of all this shit."_

_Big Boss held his ground and calmly sucked on his cigar. Jack had been right so far but he wasn't completely sure what the man wanted. _

_Was this a trick by Zero? No, Zero would have just acted on suspicion; he no longer needed little things like proof anymore. If he sensed a threat then he'd eliminate it right away. _

"_I know you care about soldiers and that you want to create a world where they will always be needed without the whims of politicians and scum." It was there that Jack betrayed his true feelings. His voice hardly changed, barely a waver; but that waver was enough to alert Big Boss. _

_To Jack, the idea of caring about soldiers, caring about anyone in fact, was a laughable concept. Big Boss's dream of a nation of free soldiers was just as unrealistic and as idiotic as Karl Marx's fairytale land version of true communism. _

_Big Boss understood what Jack wanted. "You want me to do your dirty work?"_

_Jack shoot his head and ran a hand through his oiled hair. "No, I just think that if we put our heads together, we can fix our friend the tired old man."_

_Jack's eyes narrowed with glee at the thought of taking control. "He needs us, but we don't need him. Let's set him up on a nice vacation." At the mention of a holiday, Jack began to laugh again and it was spoiling the taste of Big Boss's cigar. _

_Big Boss blew smoke into the cold night. "You mean that you want me to help you run this show?"_

_Jack pulled his hands from his pockets and spread them wide. "I'm your friend," spoken with that same sickeningly overdone sense of friendliness. _

_Big Boss knew what kind of a man Jack was. As a world famous soldier he'd seen the worst of humanity; brutal killers and vicious cock-smokers the lot of them. He'd personally tasted various forms of torture in his long life. _

_But as far as things went, he couldn't remember seeing anyone as amoral as Jack. He recalled the tortures inflicted on him long ago by Colonel Yevgeny Volgin of GRU. Yet despite al his sadism and reckless brutality, Volgin became the most enraged when Big Boss had hurt his lover, Raikov. _

_Jack by comparison staggered and disgusted Big Boss with his sheer nihilism. The man believed in nothing, valued nothing. Big Boss watched him kill a man under Zero's orders and then go after the man's wife and two children. Using only a baseball bat, Jack had murdered a woman and two six year old twins until the aftermath looked less like three human beings and more like a bunch of exploded jam jars. Boss nearly puked when he saw video footage of Jack slicing off the mother's face while she was still alive and playing with it like a mask. _

_The willingness to kill women and children, often in the most violent ways possible, made Big Boss sick to his stomach. _

_Three months ago, Jack had performed tortured and killed several undercover police in the Falcone organization. Right afterwards, Jack celebrated his good time at work by beating his girlfriend until she'd lost their four month old unborn child. _

_Even Volgin and Hot Coldman had worked towards the goal of a united world, as ruthless and unscrupulous as both those men were. _

_Boss threw his cigar to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "You think that I'm just going to help you build your own dictatorship? Get real, Jack," Boss practically spat out the man's name. _

_In the blink of an eye, Jack's demented grin transformed into a dangerous scowl. _

"_The thing with you Jack, is that you're not the first. Major Zero picks up psychos like you all the time to do his dirty work. When he's done he'll wipe his ass with you and flush you down the toilet. You have no future, Jack!"_

_In that moment, Jack's tenuous and oft times non-existent self control snapped. Reaching into his overcoat, he made to raise his gun. _

_Big Boss however was faster. His gun cleared the holster and was aimed at Jack's face before Jack would get his gun halfway. _

_Jack froze as he stared down the barrel of Big Boss's weapon. The two goons in the car reacted, jumping out and pointing their weapons at the grizzled old veteran. No matter, Boss could shoot them down any time he chose. _

_Jack's scowl was just as bad as his grin. Stands of oily hair had fallen into his face, giving him a dishevelled look. _

_A few seconds passed but it felt like forever. _

_Then quite suddenly, Jack smiled and lowered his gun. "So you can take the patriots all by yourself?"_

_Big Boss did not answer. It was a mistake coming here. _

_Jack put away his pistol. "Well, you'd better be sure."_

_Reluctantly, Big Boss lowered his gun and Jack motioned for his henchmen to back down. _

_Jack flashed that empty, joyless smile. "See, you can make a good decision when you try."_

_And then the madman was gone, leaving behind nothing but a bad taste in Big Boss's mouth. _

_As it was, the two men were in a state of mutually assured destruction. If Boss snitched to Zero, Jack would be killed, but then Jack would accuse Big Boss and Zero would kill him. Zero had been looking for an excuse to kill Big Boss for years, but kept him around as a figurehead. _

_If Jack snitched then the outcome would be the same. Zero was becoming more paranoid. He increasingly distrusted people and increasingly followed Hot Coldman's theory that only computers are fit to rule humanity. In the last two years, Zero had executed and replaced over a dozen trusted lieutenants. _

_Big Boss didn't need Jack or his Mafia support base. In Zanzibarland, the Militaires Sans Frontiers were working to take over South Africa. They would conquer just in time for a scientist to build boss a very special weapon; the realization of Granin's dream of a walking nuclear tank. _

_Metal Gear was the key to Big Boss's dream and nothing would stop him, least of all some cackling hyena of a man whose only skill was hurting the helpless and murdering the unwary. _

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Thank you my dear fans. I hope that you enjoyed this meeting between Big Boss and the Joker before he became Batman's worst enemy. Next chapter I promise I will write teh start of Ocelot's attack. This just came to me as a random plot bunny so I had to write it down.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Ta

Master of the Boot


	6. Bring down the House

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter 5: Bring down the House

Disclaimer: I do not own Gaston, Johnny Bravo, Batman or Metal Gear. Nor do I own the song Molossus or the song Highway to Hell. They are awesome but I make no money off of them.

_Twenty miles outside Gotham City_

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The Riddler was highly excited about the upcoming events which he was to play a vital role in. Ocelot was a vital part of the operation; it was his idea, after all. His shot was as good as any, but without the Riddler's information technology knowledge, the entire edifice would collapse like a house of cards.

Once upon a time, Edward Nygma had been a respectable man. He wasn't a good man or an ethical man but he was respectable. He used to work at a prestigious computer company, designing brand new firewalls to keep ahead of the world's great hackers. On weekends he downloaded porn illegally off the internet and cheated on his taxes through online banking.

It was a comfortable life, if a bit dull. Certainly it was nothing so bad as to make him try to reenact some of the shit from _Fight Club_. But everything changed when a mysterious man dressed like a bat started to terrorize the gangland of Gotham.

As the power of the Mafia slowly dwindled from Batman putting the squeeze on corrupt judges and politicians, Nygma saw an opening in the criminal underworld and seized it. Soon afterwards, he started wearing a green suit with a question mark on the tie. After his first arrest, a cheap tabloid journalist called him _the Riddler_ as Nygma's crimes had been marked by seemingly unsolvable riddles to make the Zodiac Killer look like a pushover.

In the end, the Batman had solved the riddles left out by Nygma and defeated him time and time again.

The riddles became harder and harder over the years and the sums of money stolen became vaster and vaster, but Batman beat him every time. It was fun actually. Nygma felt like he was L from _Deathnote_ and Batman was Light. Nygma read too much manga.

Nygma owed Ocelot a great debt since it was he who broke the Riddler out of prison. Nygma made history as a Batman villain last year when he became the first of the rogues gallery to have sex with Commissioner Gordon's daughter.

_Riddle me this, Batman. Who is a girl with red hair and curves all over who does sexual favor for me?_

That ended badly. The Riddler had been shipped off to Abbot State Penitentiary in Maryland; a shithole that made Gotham's Blackgate Prison look like the Garden of Eden. He would most likely have been killed in prison if Ocelot hadn't broken him out.

Now, outside of Gotham (a reasonably safe distance from the chaos) the Riddler was putting the final touches on the plan to destroy Gotham in order steal the military technology of the future.

Riddler sat in his swivel chair, hair wild and the lights turned off. The computer screen cast a sickly glow on his face. He cackled excitedly as he calibrated the codec communications between the major players in Ocelot's scheme.

Checking the files one last time, Riddler looked over everything . . . and then he began to laugh like a madman. This would be his greatest riddle yet! And he had Ocelot to thank for this one.

Calling up Ocelot on the secure cell phone, Riddler grinned from ear to ear; looking much like a composer as he admires his new melody. "Ocelot, all systems are go! The equipment to get rid of your pain in the neck will appear marked on your radar map. We're ready at any time."

"Good," growled Ocelot. "I'm just on the main highway to this city, activate the plan."

Killing the link, Riddler began to dial up the troops to tell give them the all ahead. In his chair, Riddler chuckled to himself. He was nowhere near as crazy or as dangerous as the Joker, Poison Ivy or Bane. That didn't mean he didn't enjoy his job every bit as much as those other psychos.

_Gotham City, outside City Hall_

Gotham City hall was a magnificent building. Mayors of the past had renovated this place using public funds many times; skimming off those funds to line their own pockets. City Hall was actually the most secure building in town. After the earthquake tore apart Gotham, new buildings were built to be earthquake proof. Also to guard against super villains, the windows on the place were armor plate glass that could stop a tank and many security measures inside the place were also used by embassies in Israel to guard against terrorist attacks.

None of that would help however against two losers hiding in the bushes. Hidden among the decorative shrubberies, Gaston and Johnny Bravo watched the steady stream of civil servants leave the building. These people were only the little people, pencil pushers and such. The really important politicians were still inside. The Mayor of Gotham would leave in an hour for an important ceremony at Wayne Tower; too bad he'd never get to that ceremony.

Gaston's face stood out in the bushes like a sore thumb. The Frenchman's mighty arm held back a branch so that he and Johnny could see. A bureaucrat with a briefcase walked past and gave an odd glance to the two men in the bushes before picking up her pace.

Gaston chuckled. "This is not their lucky day."

Johnny chose that moment to strike a pose. "HUH! Oh yeah, it's not," he agreed with Gaston.

With a shrewd look on his face, Gaston's eyes narrowed. "Come," he said to Johnny. "Let's go and see if Ocelot is ready yet." Walking away from the bushes, Gaston let go of the branch that he was holding, causing it to smack Johnny Bravo right in the face.

Johnny was stunned by the impact of the branch. His sunglasses were askew and there were leaves in his mouth.

Gaston stepped deeper into the safety of the hedges. He'd never seen bushes this tall near a public building before. Regardless, he picked up his secure phone and as he was about to dial, the phone rang on him. The muscular French soldier saw the caller ID.

He smirked at the number. _Speak of the devil_. "_Bonjour,_" Gaston greeted in his native language. The words that Ocelot spoke were exactly the ones that he wanted to hear. No more hiding in bushes with the dumbest man on earth. No more sleeping in the crappiest motel in the world and no more sitting by and waiting for the action to start.

Reaching behind his back, Gaston grabbed his automatic blunderbuss and felt the wonderful feel of his finger against the trigger. The experimental machine gun was fully loaded and ready to go; all he needed was to flick off the safety. The Frenchman spoke to Ocelot. "Yes sir, we are ready to move. See you at Wayne Tower when the time comes." Gaston flashed his pearly white teeth in malicious glee as he thumbed the safety off his gun and he gazed down the iron sights of his wonderful weapon. It was time to go hunting, maybe even take some trophies.

Before he could go and hang up, he received a final warning from Ocelot. "And for the love of God Gaston," Ocelot yelled, "Don't let Johnny Bravo near any TV cameras or we'll be the laughingstock of the nation!"

Gaston nodded, "Yes Sir,"

It was easier said than done.

Gaston looked to see Johnny trying to woo a whore. In Paris there had been a lot of whores in the neighbourhood where Gaston lived. But in Gotham prostitutes seemed to be more common than fire hydrants. They should have had civil servants paint the whores once a year, just like the fire hydrants.

"Howdy Street Walking Mamma," said Johnny in his dulcet tones. He flexed his muscles for emphasis. "Doesn't a bod this pretty deserve a discount for your fine services?"

"Hit the road Jack," said the whore. Disappointed, Johnny watched as the whore sashayed away from him and into the setting sun.

Johnny groaned. "Oh man, I'd better bring out the reinforcements." From out of his combat pack, Johnny pulled out a jar with air holes in the lid. "This toad I got for Easter will woo the ladies." The blonde man raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Chicks dig guys who like animals."

Holding his gun, Gaston was staggered by the sheer stupidity of his comrade. In terms of sheer idiocy, there seemed to be no limit that Johnny Bravo didn't surpass in terms of raw brainlessness. How the man ever became a member of the elite Army Rangers was beyond Gaston's ability to understand and may God have mercy on Johnny's soul. He was going to need it if he thought that a small dry skinned amphibian in a jar was going to make women think that he was sexy.

Gaston shook his head. Who the hell got a toad for Easter? Who the hell got a toad, period? Scratch that. Who the hell carried a toad around with them on military missions? Only one man performed such uncanny acts of brain deadness and he was currently putting the toad back into his jacket so that he could comb his hair really fast.

Swallowing his distaste, Gaston called to his American partner. "Johnny, the curtain to our little opera has lifted. It's time that we played our rightful parts." Gaston put away his phone and clenched his gun in both hands; his fibrous muscles bulged under his skin.

Responding instantly, Johnny whipped out his two large Automag handguns from their holsters. "HUH!" he grunted. "Don't shoot the pretty ones."

Gaston rolled his eyes. "Oh please. With one look at me, all the women will fall to their feet and beg for a feel." Regardless of Johnny's stupidity, Gaston could definitely match the Texan in terms of arrogance and utter blindness to his own faults. None of them, unfortunately, were incompetent with a gun and the Mayor and his people would find that out the hard way.

_Gotham Central Hospital_

Inside the security room of Gotham Central, the security guard stared at one monitor in particular. For the last hour and a half, this weird fuck had loitered around the entrance of the hospital where he sucked on a seemingly endless supply of juice boxes and freaked the hell out of people trying to get medical care.

Vamp hung around the front of the major hospital. The reason for him waiting here was twofold. First, it was at this location that he would meet the mercenary army which Ocelot had hired to help them out in this endeavour. As powerful as Ocelot and his ensigns were, there were too few of them to hold a hostage taking and cut through the hefty security of Bruce Wayne's vault.

The second reason for Vamp being here was that he wanted to be here when they blew up Gotham Central hospital in an effort to panic the population of Gotham. He and his coworkers had done a lot of work planting random bombs across the city and Vamp wanted to be there when his handicraft went off. It was times like this that he wished Fatman was still alive; he'd have set up the bombs in half the time they'd done it.

Presently Vamp was sucking down a box of grape juice while wearing a _Team Edward_ shirt. Normally he wasn't the type to go around with shirts; he was far too proud of his fit and lithe physique for that. This occasion however warranted a shirt because Vamp did not desire to stand out any more than he had.

He already looked like a goddamn vampire (even though that wasn't why he had this codename) so when people saw the shirt they'd just think that he was _way_ too deep into the vampire things. Plus, he honestly did enjoy those books even if the casting choice in the movies was very poor.

Tossing aside his now empty juice box into the recycling bin and continued to loiter. Entering the hospital was a teenage girl in a _Team Jacob _shirt. Vamp winked at the girl and pointed. "Hello." The girl averted her eyes and called him a weirdo when she thought he couldn't hear it. Vamp scowled as he saw the insolent girl leave.

In a matter of seconds though, Vamp's keen hearing picked up the sound of a semi truck trailer coming this way. As the sun finally set over the horizon, a giant truck came down the road with the phrase "_Laughter is the best medicine_" written on the side. Only somebody had spray painted a big "S" right before the "L" so that the word became _"sLaughter._"

Vamp grinned widely, flashing fangs as the truck peeled to a stop in front of the hospital. Driving the semi truck were two eccentric characters. The driver was a strangely yellow skinned man wearing a military uniform and an old German _stahlhelm_; he was pounding back a _Duff _beer as he drove. The passenger of the truck was a light haired Italian man in a nice suit that seemed to posses the same red eyes, fangs, pale skin and pointed ears as Vamp.

Gleefully, the vampiric Italian man jumped out of the truck and embraced Vamp like a relative long lost or a friend thought to be dead. "_Fratello!"_ the man cried out with Tuscan glee and gusto.

Likewise, Vamp was equally pleased to embrace this man who shared such prominent features with him. Laughing joyfully, Vamp squeezed the Italian maybe-vampire into a tight hug and ruffled the man's well coifed blond hair. "_Frate!"_

Out from the back of the semi truck poured about fifty or so mercenaries; each one of them so mean and dangerous that at any moment these guys looked like they could eat a baby.

Pulling apart from their brotherly embrace, the two men grinned at each other. The Italian grabbed Vamp's shoulder and squeezed affectionately. "We have the order, _fratello. _Let us die and make death; kill and be killed."

"So you have it then?" Vamp asked the question with the eagerness of a child demanding to know what's really inside his birthday present.

The Italian nodded. "It's right here," came his melodious reply; his voice much higher than that of Vamp. In a surprisingly thick fingered hand he held up a bomb detonator. "As soon as the Riddler gives his broadcast, this hospital burns."

The Italian was quickly shocked and outraged as Vamp snatched the detonator form him. "That's mine," he hissed inhumanly. "Ocelot said I was to detonate the bomb!"

Vamp growled at the man only a moment ago he'd welcomed like a brother. "No, it's mine. Ocelot trusts only me to set off the explosives!"

Growling like wild dogs, Vamp began to fight the Italian man for control of the remote.

_Back at City Hall_

A massive muscular Frenchman entered Gotham City hall. His stride thundered across the foyer in those big boots he wore. Really, except for the unnerving smile on his face Gaston looked like he belonged on _Jersey Shore_.

A security guard tried to stop the French hunting aficionado. "I'm sorry sir but past this point I'm going to need a valid pass."

Gaston utterly ignored the man and threw a mighty fist into the guard's face. The force of the blow threw the guard backwards; crushing his nose into his skull and sending blood gushing everywhere.

Undaunted and in fact feeling pretty good about himself, Gaston walked right through the metal detector. The machine cried loudly as it picked up the presence of a large quantity of metal. With the same smile, Gaston pulled out his automatic blunderbuss and fired a ten round burst at the metal detector. Brass casings hit the floor and the metal detector went silent. If the giant shrieking siren didn't get security here then the gunfire hopefully would.

Striding up the marble stairs as easily as walking to the fridge, Gaston heard the approaching security teams. The fools barrelled down the hallway, pistols drawn. They might be enough to handle the everyday super criminals and other scum that tried to get in, but they were no match for a fighter of Gaston's calibre.

The leader of the security team didn't even get a chance to yell "Freeze!" before he was gunned down by Gaston. The same machine gun spray that exploded his heart went wide and murdered the two men standing to either side of him. With two of their own dead, including their commander, the security team jumped for cover.

From the other side of the hallway, Gaston heard more security personnel approach. Gaston had no time for them so he flicked a live grenade down the hall. The big Frenchman didn't even pay attention to the explosion, the screams or the flying guts and blood.

Loading a fresh clip into his gun, Gaston blew the head off of a security guard who tried to shoot him from behind cover. These guys were merely amateurs. One more grenade finished off the lot of them.

Gaston reloaded his gun and did an ammo count, utterly ignoring the tortured screams of the dying before continuing towards his target.

Inside the Mayor's office, the elected head of Gotham had heard the gunshots and he was terrified. Every since Batman was cleaning things up, the corruption that made the office worthwhile had slowly shrunk into nothing; now he actually had to work for this damn city. It didn't help the Mayor's nerves when they reported no further contact from security teams A and B.

Deciding that against such a powerful threat the current location wasn't safe, the Mayor's bodyguards decided to move him to the safe room as a dark suited agent hit the panic button which would summon half of the Gotham Police Force here.

One bodyguard opened the door as his partner took point. No sooner had the first guard scanned the hall did all present hear a voice.

"One-two-three HA!" Out of nowhere, a hulking muscular man with sunglasses and blond hair shot out of nowhere and threw an iron hard elbow into the guard's face. Like an old West gunfighter, the big man drew two pistols from his belt and gunned down the bodyguards closest to the mayor.

Defiant of his size, the giant body builder like man threw himself out of the way of enemy fire with the agility of a ninety pound acrobat.

One of the quicker body guards ran to the mayor's desk and hit a special button which caused massive steel doors to fall and cover the windows and doors. Still not as tough as the safe room but very safe.

Unfortunately those steel doors were never designed to stop Johnny Bravo. Throwing a bomb proof coffee table under the door, Johnny flew under the door like a bird and landed behind a bulletproof couch.

The guards opened fire on Johnny but were unable to strike the man despite his broad size. From behind the couch, Bravo rose up with a bulletproof chair in either hand. For once, bullet-proofing the furniture had turned out to be a bad idea. Spinning both of the chairs in his hands at blinding speed, Johnny used these normally harmless sitting tools to block hails of gunfire directed at him by the mayor's men.

As the bodyguards reloaded their weapons, Johnny tossed the chairs he was holding. The first sailed through the air and struck a guard dead in the throat. The second chair went flying and the leg of it went through the bodyguard's eye and into his brain; he was dead before he hit the floor.

The bodyguards reduced now to barely a handful by a single man, the mayor cowered behind his desk and prayed with every ounce of piety that he had that the police would show up in the nick of time and put down this madman.

The mayor heard identical _thud_s that signified that two more of his bodyguards had fallen.

Outside the office, the guard that Bravo knocked out was slowly coming awake. The blow from Johnny had dislocated his jaw, broken it and knocked out various teeth. Spitting out blood and broken teeth, the security guard painfully reached for his sidearm. He was a professional man and one of the few ethical men in Gotham. He'd wanted to go down in a straight fight. He had no desire to die here on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

That wish of his was never realized because at that very moment, the point of a screwdriver was driven through the back of his head and out of his mouth. For a split second, the bodyguard stood frozen with a blood covered metal spike protruding from his mouth. Then the body went instantly limp and the owner of the screwdriver yanked it from the deceased man's skull with a wet noise like pulling a butter knife out of a melon.

The gunfire had stopped and the mayor dared to look over the top of his desk. In a moment he wished that he had not. The whole security team was dead by a single man; the muscular brute had both pistols crossed in an egotistical but somehow more sombre pose.

Even more frightening, a second muscular man entered the office. By his expression, this fellow with black hair was much more intelligent than his comrade.

Gaston walked towards the mayor's desk, holding the bloody screwdriver which the black ops groups he was once a member of took its name from.

Reaching under the ornate but hardy desk, Gaston hit a security button which caused metal gates to close. This action locked inside the building all who didn't manage to escape when the gunfire went off. The whole building was now a prison and Bravo and Gaston were the jailers.

Using his most charming smile on the mayor, Gaston held the bloody screwdriver close to the corrupt man's face. "Now Mr. Mayor, let's not do anything hasty that may cause more people to be hurt."

* * *

Across Gotham city, something happened. First, every traffic light in town turned green; causing massive vehicular mayhem the likes of which had not been seen since the cataclysm and the rise of No-Man's-Land. Everywhere, cars slammed into each other, pedestrians were cut down and in a split second the Riddler's cyber designs had caused millions of dollars of property damage.

What followed next would be remembered as the greatest example of mass terror since _War of the Worlds_ was broadcasted on radio in the nineteen thirties.

In every television, computer, radio, cell phone and electronic mass media, a message appeared. On anything with a screen, previous images were overridden and replaced by a green stylized "R." The frightened citizens of Gotham listened in horror as a distorted electronic voice began to speak to them all.

"_Hello," _began the broadcast. "_We are the terrorists and right now we have it in our power to slice the throat of this great city._"

On the streets, people began to scream at the creepy voice's graphic imagery.

"_Right now we have taken the mayor hostage; the city is under our control. We make the rules from now on._"

In a bar in Gotham, people stared transfixed at the TV screen that only a moment ago had been playing the latest baseball game.

"_Our demands will be broadcast shortly. To prove that we are serious, we will blow up a hospital and release all the inmates of both Blackgate Prison and Arkham Asylum._"

In a rich private school, two buddies who'd been watching a podcast when they ought to have been studying looked at each other in disbelief.

"_Frankly, none of you has a chance. Our agents are everywhere, thousands of them; pretending to be your friend, your neighbour or someone you trust._"

At a car dealership, the employees and customers all regarded each other with suspicion. Lines were already being drawn along race, religion and any number of other factors.

"_What you should do is run. Leave this city; kill all who get in your way because if you don't then they will kill you first. Do you understand me? No one is coming to save you. If you don't run, then you will all die." _The synthesized voice was utterly calm and detached as it delivered its gruesome message.

In a lower income neighbourhood of Mexican immigrants, a father of five started looking under his mattress until he found a gun with a few clips of perfectly good ammo. In the living room, dinner had been forgotten and his children looked at him as if he knew what to do.

The eerie voice, sounding like nails and metal scraping together delivered the last of its message. "_So go ahead and panic. Go crazy. Get psycho. Kill or be a rotting corpse for the birds. You are all going to die."_

Every screen in Gotham from TV to computer was suddenly flooded with images of rioting from all across the world. People in the video were getting their skulls kicked in; rational people turned into mindless frothing beasts. Landmarks of Gotham were shown just to make people think that chaos was already come. Shortly after all that, footage of Arkham Asylum and Blackgate were shown; doctored to depict inmates and psychopaths crossing the bridges and flooding the city.

Elsewhere in the city, the doors of Arkham and Blackgate opened wide, just hours after the Joker made his daring escape.

_Gotham Central Hospital_

Meanwhile, a group of seedy men were listening to the Riddler's broadcast, not with fear, but with glee.

At the conclusion of the broadcast, several of the men fired their weapons in the air. The bizarre yellow skinned man took aim with a rifle bigger than anyone had a right to carry and shot down a news helicopter with it. Impressive given that he shot it from a thousand yards away with no scope at night. "Woo-hoo!" the man cried jubilantly as the news copter crashed in flames.

Vamp held the detonator in his hand, for he'd won the fight with his brother. Both of the vampire like men were beat up badly; Vamp's shirt was in tatters and his brother's suit was in similar condition.

The Italian man's wounds were healing at a superhuman rate but nowhere near as fast as those of his brother.

Shouting for all the men to watch him, Vamp hit the detonator.

Nothing happened. Grumbling, Vamp started to tap the detonator with his hand. It obviously worked as the front of the hotel exploded in flames. The men had to shield their eyes from debris and bright light. Like a demolition job, the rest of the hospital blew up and collapsed; resulting in the deaths of hundreds of sick and injured people and the mercenaries just laughed their bloody laughs at it all. Evidently the murder of the injured was nothing to them except a very good halftime show.

Vamp and his brother cheered mightily. Vamp was cut short however as a flying piece of shrapnel in the form of a metal spike flew from the inferno and struck vamp right through the balls; as if staking him through the heart wouldn't do it.

All the mercenaries ceased their celebrating as they saw their commanding officer fall to the ground with a piece of sharp metal through his crotch. Vamp had only one thing to say.

"Shit."

_Greater Grout Road, entrance to Gotham, an hour later_

There was something to the eccentric as the world fell into disorder. For men with plans that were larger than life, seeing a piece of that plan, from order to chaos, was invigorating. Gotham was in hell, or in one of its stages of hell- riot. People of all sorts, fending for their lives as maniacs, criminals and all varieties of scum descended into their lives. All cars were abandoned but a few, some desperate to use them as a temporary getaway or as a glass wall between their lives and the sick and violent world. All this was amusement and satisfaction to the driver of a particularly large eighteen wheeler, bigger than the one that carried the mercenary army.

Ocelot had the faintest smile on his aged face as he beheld the unrelenting hate that spilled all around him. There was truly something to watching the world collapse around you, and being so, very impervious to it. But he wasn't just a spectator. He wanted some fun. A tiny broken Camry stood in his truck's way between one side of the intersection and another street. So, with a smirk that bared his teeth, he put on the gas and leveled the poor excuse for a car. Several other broken vehicles suffered similar fates- nearby runaways or survivors fled in terror as large bodies of metal flew into the sidewalks.

And yet he felt as if something was missing. Something truly was out of place, as he smashed a broken hunk of a four by four out of the way with a jerk of the handle, began to realize this more and more. There were cries of pain and fear, blood on windows, even several bodies having been looted, or raped, to be left to rot on the streets. Yet… there was something not complete with this hellish image. Ocelot buried his brow, thinking hard as he turned a street corner, forcing a group of convicts to dodge the car. His dry cackle revealed his sudden inspiration.

Music. The beats and rhythm of lyric-less sound would perfect the scene. He checked the scene; he was on a major road, and would in no time soon run out of space to drive, nor was there anything intimidating on the road to oppose his truck. He leaned downward, feeling a slight bump as he smashed away yet another car, several screams indicating it having been full of survivors, and started searching for his CD case. He had something perfect for a portrait like Gotham; dark and dramatic with a heartbeat as fast as the wings of a hummingbird.

"Hans Zimmer," Ocelot stated, pulling the CD titled "_Best of Hans Zimmer_," you have yet to disappoint… let us see what shuffle can provide what cries for mercy cannot."

The CD slid easily into the compartment, and the stereo system turned on. Taking a moment to read the digital recording, Ocelot wondered what could await him. A sudden rush of music rumbled through the truck; fast beating drums and an orchestra playing at the speed of near death- Molossus. The time of his life sudden fell into his lap, and Ocelot laughed wildly as he beat his hands against the steering wheel, and turned down an alleyway, determined to cause some fleeing pedestrians the time of their lives just before getting squashed. Sparks flew and brick crumbled where the trailer scraped against the wall. As he 'sung' to the music (basically humming the deepest drums in synch) his hand orchestrated to his amazement, all on its own. The pace of the music picked up, faster and faster, and he got closer and closer to the fleeing men and women-

The music stopped.

"WHAT?" Ocelot roared, slamming down on the breaks. The truck skidded to a halt, and the pedestrians continued their run, thanking God as they did. The Russian looked to his right hand, now removing the CD, and putting in another. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he demanded of his hand. As the new CD slid in, Ocelot defiantly grabbed the previous one, so unlovingly discarded to the seat next to him as the newest set of music played. Heavy Guitars began to shake the cars, and Ocelot grimaced, holding his ears against the head-splitting noise some called music.

"_Living easy, living free, season ticket for a one way ride_," The lyrics started. Ocelot groaned.

"You have got to be kiddin-"

"_I'M ON A HIIIIIGHWAAY TO HELL_!" Ocelot felt like he was being forced back against his seat by the music, but pushed the accelerator by accident, and began to speed back into the streets.

"No, we are not listening to this 'American Rock'!" Ocelot declared, and ejected the music, and attempted to insert the other CD. Just as Molossus began again, his right hand acted once again on its own accord, and removed the CD again, and again Highway to Hell started playing. "I said Hans Zimmer!" The hand this time had a more definitive statement, as it turned and slammed its knuckles into his face. The vehicle slid to a halt, as Ocelot growled and began to wrestle his self-punching hand, crashing the semi truck violently through a bus stop. Shattered glass and twisted metal flew everywhere. After giving up trying to submit his own arm to his will, he instead try a new tactic- getting to the CD player first.

Dodging his rebellious arm, Ocelot used his knees to get the steering wheel under control as he attempted to get back the sweet tunes of Master Hans Zimmer.

The only problem was the arm had the same idea. Each of his arms grabbed a CD and attempted to shove it into the CD-player, and only when they both jammed, did Ocelot lose it. Slamming his fist into the CD's and breaking them both.

"Oh… wonderful… the music is-" Ocelot started, only to watch in terrible fury as the CD player took in the two disks and suddenly shot sparks out and let a high pitch screech. "And there goes any chance for music from my collection of great CD's! And you wanted something 'American'!"

_Well, this is America, dear Ocelot!_ A voice stated in the Russians mind, _I felt a more appropriate tune would liven things up for the show._

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Liquid," Ocelot stated, getting the car back in motion, his great mood ruined," you may be part of me, but you are only a symbiotic part! You do not make decisions for me particularly ones centered on what I find entertaining or appropriate!"

_Dear Ocelot… a Symbiotic pair requires two functional parties. As much as you have a brain, I have a soul; I am more than just psychotherapy and brainwashing to fool the Patriots. And if you want this arm at all, you must understand that my soul and it's will… well, you'll just have to make the occasional exception as for who makes the shots,_ Liquid's calculating and cool British Dialect replied, cold as ice, but holding truth.

"The day you start calling the shots is the day either I die or I tear you off because I can't stand your voice," Ocelot stated as he ran over a homeless man.

_So you think, Gunslinger, so you think,_ Liquid replied,_ perhaps… a mutual agreement? Let us turn on the radio- whichever station we find to our taste first gets the pick. Agreed?_

Liquid had said something that threw off the Russian Cowboy. The way he said it all, "So you think," made it sound as if he, Liquids spirit, had something planned that Ocelot would have no say in the matter. Such an idea was frightening… but it would have to wait. He simply wanted the argument to be done with, and thus nodded, and turned on the radio moodily. Turning to a warzone that was yet another main street, Ocelot heard something interesting.

"Testing, testing one… two, three, HEE-HOO-HAA!" Ocelot's foot slid off the pedal and his truck slid to a stop, crashing through the front window of an electronics store. He couldn't believe of the two to get a hold of the air, it was Bravo who would be the one to speak to the terrified public.

"I told you, No speaks on air like Gaston!" the French man could be heard just above Bravo.

"Alrightly people of Gotham. I am here, HOOHA!" Ocelot groaned. This man couldn't finish a sentence before striking a pose that allowed him to expose his large bulging muscles. "I am here to speak for… The Terrorist Cell of Love!"

"The WHAT?" Ocelot shouted at the radio; his eyes were as wide as saucers.

Looking outside the truck, Ocelot saw that a few TV's were still intact even if his truck had crushed a few escaping employees. To his utter horror, he could see that Johnny wasn't only on the radio; he was also on the TV in all his brainless, dunderheaded glory.

"So listen up lovely ladies of this city, so desperate in need… mmm yeah I'm pretty, single and ready to mingle… and as for you boys in the police force, still running around like a cocky little thing, lemme just tell you, we've got automatic weapons, an EMP bomb, enough Semtex to level this sinkhole and guns," he could be heard groaning and flexing in various ways," like these, ohhhh man you better know not to mess! Unless you're a sassy little chic lookin' for love! So… the demands of Gotham and the many fine women are this- I want a free room in every hotel so the lovely ladies and I can become acquainted better, a pickle sandwich, free pizza in every pizza shop forever, and one hundred million, billion, trillion, million, sebado-llion, billi-"

"This isn't what we're supposed to be demanding!" Gaston suddenly became louder and a scuffle was heard, the microphone clearly dropping as it collided with the struggle and a thud as clearly Gaston had slammed a fist into Bravos face. The radio then died. On the surviving TVs, the French and American idiots had knocked over the camera so that all the audience could see was their boots as they beat the crap out of each other. Words could not describe Ocelots confusion… his… his awe at their stupidity. All he could do, with the help of Liquids forearm, was a truly epic facepalm.

* * *

Thank you ladies and gentleman, I had so much fun writing this :D And I'm sure you had fun reading it ;) In all honestly, I had help writing this. EZB was kind enough to write the parts with Ocelot and the truck; which I think is so good I wish that I could take credit for it.

Oh well, next chapter returns to Snake and Batman and what they are doing right before the shit hits the fan. Batman is arresting sluts and Snake is realizing that he and Otacon don't like any of the same shows.

As a side note. Fratello is Italian for brother and the same for the Romanian word Frate. The relationship between Vamp and the Italian brother will be elaborated upon in later chapters.

I'd like to thank my wonderful co-author EZB as well as all my readers.

Ta

Master of the Boot


	7. The Perfect Jump

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter Six: Perfect Jump

Disclaimer: I do not own the Metal Gear Solid or Batman series; this is a not for profit endeavour. This is largely a Snake Centric chapter coauthored by the magnificent EZB. His parts are the ones that rock.

_

* * *

_

Take my love, take my land

_Take me where I cannot—_

"Ah shut up!" yelled Solid Snake at the computer screen before hitting the fast forward button. In the pilot's seat of the aircraft, Otacon sat with a nervous expression.

Otacon pursed his lips together. In all fairness it was his idea to watch the series known as _Firefly_. He just assumed that Snake would love the show because it was chock full of cowboy themes and tropes. Unfortunately the computer scientist was not fully able to predict what Snake would and would not like. And Solid Snake did not like _Firefly._

Snake, giving up on the episode he was watching, shut the laptop and angrily placed it on the console of the plane. He'd been piloting the plane from Bruce Wayne's secret private bunker to Gotham City for the last few hours and Otacon had volunteered to take the controls.

Since Snake had forgotten to pack any of his books, Otacon happily gave Snake his laptop and a few DVDs of his favourite TV show.

Snake's face had been unreadable as he watched the Joss Whedon TV show; Otacon only started to suspect that Snake hated the show when he stopped an episode halfway through to start another one.

Snake spun around in his chair and faced his geeky pal. "Otacon, what the hell is that crap?"

Otacon didn't know how to reply and when he did he did so in a very meek voice. "It's _Firefly,_ a space opera western."

"Well it sucks," said Snake, putting as much emphasis on the word "sucks" as was humanly possible. "Why the hell did you even give me that shit to watch?" He crossed his arms as he waited for an answer.

Otacon bowed his head like a scolded puppy. In a pathetic way he was really quite adorable. "I thought you would like it because you like cowboys."

Snake snorted in disbelief and general pissed-offness. "I like cowboys. I do not like the homos in that stupid TV show."

Once again Otacon winced at Snake's harsh critical review. "Well, Big Boss liked _Firefly."_

Groaning, Solid Snake began to rummage through his pockets for a cigarette. He always lost his cigarettes after putting on his sneaking suit. This one was supposed to be a new and improved model over his older ones. Both Otacon and the absent Mei-Ling had worked on the advanced technology in the suit as well as dozens of others of Bruce Wayne's smartest scientists. None of them could get close to Snake's friends though.

While Mei-Ling had been offered a job with Wayne Electronics she'd turned down the offer and claimed to be working for herself in the private market.

This new suit had dozens of features that Snake lacked during the battle of Shadow Moses; but he still couldn't find his smokes. "Otacon, I'm not Big Boss. I share his genetics, nothing more."

At last, Snake found his beloved smokes. He was never a cigar guy like Big Boss. In his opinion Cigarettes were much more convenient and they looked cooler. They still gave you cancer but Snake was sure that FOXDIE would finish him off well before then; that was if advanced aging didn't kill him first.

Awkward silence filled the cabin as Snake smoked away. The smoke stung Otacon's eyes but a question burned his mind.

Snake ignored Otacon, thinking both about the upcoming mission and about smoking. Big Boss and he were smokers but neither Liquid Snake nor Solidus smoked. Liquid was an avid health freak; sex was his only vice.

Solidus meanwhile was a raging alcoholic. On a good day the guy could finish off a whole bottle of vodka at one sitting. He was also pedophile who sadistically raped the child soldiers under his command. Just thinking about what Raiden had to endure at Solidus's hands made Snake shiver. Bastard got what he deserved.

He was interrupted from his musings as Otacon popped a question. "Snake, why do you hate _Firefly_?"

The question surprised Snake. He honestly didn't want to hurt the Otaku's feelings but he just hated that awful show. So he decided to be candid with his buddy. "I hate the damn soundtrack."

This surprised Otacon so he pressed the issue further. "Come on Snake, you can't hate a show for its soundtrack."

"I hate the damn music, Otacon," Snake said in a sharp voice. "It's just so damn annoying. Every time they play that violin music I can feel my spine tingle in a bad way. And I also hate that stupid rinky-tink Chinatown music."

Otacon felt compelled to defend the show he loved. "But in the show's universe, the Chinese took over civilization."

"Then didn't I see a single Chinese in that show? Don't tell me that _Firefly _couldn't use somebody like Mei-Ling."

The tone that Snake took was very uncomfortable for Otacon; why did Snake have to be so aggressive? "Well, maybe they couldn't find any Chinese actors."

Snake merely rolled his eyes at what he saw as delusional defence of a third rate show. "This is one show that Fox was right to cancel."

"Snake, that's below the belt," said OTacon.

Snake immediately regretted saying what he did. "Oh shit; sorry Otacon." He really had gone too far with the crack about Fox TV. Then he added casually. "I still think it's a crappy show."

"But why?" Otacon almost whined.

Snake groaned and put out his cigarette in the ash tray. If someone hates something, you don't go asking why unless you want to hear what you love insulted. None the less, Snake was honest. "I can't stand the main character."

"You mean Captain Mal?"

"Yeah, Captain Homo," Snake mumbled sarcastically. "That guy."

Otacon didn't know what Snake saw wrong with Captain Mal. "But Snake, Mal is awesome. He's brave and stands up for what he believes in." Otacon sounded like a young child defending his favourite comic book hero.

Snake said nothing. He merely grunted and made a gesture that looked a lot like masturbating.

Otacon refused to believe that Snake could hate Captain Reynolds so much. "Come on Snake; he's just like Han Solo."

Snake turned back to Otacon and gave him a "are you stupid" look. "Otacon, Homer Simpson could make a better starship captain than that asshole." For emphasis, Snake added. "He's a fucking retard."

Seeing that Otacon wasn't going to drop this, Snake decided to change the subject. "Liquid Snake was gay."

"Come on Snake, stop insulting—what, really?"

"Yup," said Snake as he started to light another cigarette. "Gay like a flamboyant Englishman."

Otacon was so surprised by this admission that he forgot all about his Beloved _Firefly_. "I didn't know that Liquid was gay."

"He was from the same outfit as Liberace," Snake joked. "I knew that he hated me from the moment we met and we wanted to snuff me out like a bug; but it took a bit longer to find out that he was playing for the other team."

Snake lit his cigarette and went on with his story. "I was being tortured by Ocelot when Liquid came to gloat." Snake exhaled a plume of toxic smoke. "He bragged about his total kill count, his marksmanship and physical fitness. He even told me that it wasn't a landmine that killed Grey Fox, Liquid beat him to death."

Otacon's eyes widened. "No, that' can't be true."

Snake laughed bitterly. In the years since their last encounter, Snake has grown to hate his brother as much as Liquid hated him. "The landmine story was just a cover up; I heard it from Grey Fox's own mouth. They got into a bar fight just after Zanzibar land and the Patriots just strolled in and picked up his corpse." His normally steady hands crushed the cigarette in his hand and he suddenly felt old.

The story continued. "I was being tortured when he bragged about how much ass he was getting. I called bullshit until he showed me his little black book of addresses and phone numbers."

A look similar to admiration came across Snake's face. "I was shocked that anybody had gotten more pussy than I had; and I get around."

Otacon was more than aware of Snake's power over the ladies. Even Count Dracula couldn't put the ladies under a spell like Snake could. Forget Bela Lugosi, David Sears is the man the ladies want.

"Yeah," said Snake. "I was impressed until I saw that the hundreds of names of the people he fucked were actually men's names. Then I was just wierded out."

"After he died, I took his little black book and tried some of the phone numbers just to see if he was pulling my leg. I got a lot of angry gay men who freaked out because "James" never called them back the day after."

"I still have that black book," Snake said. "I keep it so that whenever I look at it, I'm reminded that some people deserve to die." Snake's voice turned dark with a most uncharacteristic fury. "For what he did to Grey Fox, I would have loved to have ripped his beating heart out."

But the former FOXHOUND member changed the tone once again and this time not for the better. "Anyway, _Firefly _is better than those retarded cartoons you made me watch."

Now this got Otacon mad. "How many times do I have to tell you, dammit? It's called anime!"

Snake's story was interrupted by an incoming call from none other than Colonel Campbell.

"The colonel!" Otacon stated, spotting the screen with a red light flashing, located on the control panel between various instruments. Snake nodded mentally. The briefing he needed just before the fun began, as usual. He flicked a small switch by the monitor, turning it on. There was the properly dressed, but distressed looking Colonel Roy Campbell. "Hello there, colonel," Otacon greeted.

"Snake, Otacon, It's good to see you're on route," Colonel Campbell's voice emanated from a small speaker next to the screen, "if you two had been sent later, there might not have been much of a city to infiltrate."

"What's the status?" Snake asked, diving for the point. The black and white image of Roy Campbell took a moment of a sigh, his expression grim.

"It's a living hell for Gotham City right now. There are people getting murdered on the streets without any real law holding the violence back. Armed terrorists have taken Mayor of Gotham hostage and plunged the city into chaos by inciting riots. At the same time, reports have declared that the Arkham Asylum had a massive break out, so there aren't just your usual desperate criminals out tonight- real sicko's who have a mind for killing and destruction are roaming the streets. There are also unconfirmed reports of mass escape in Blackgate Prison; be on your guard, Snake."

"Sounds like a good place to get warmed up," Snake stated sardonically.

"That's terrible snake!" Otacon nearly gasped, "psychopaths and murderers out and about and you think that's just practice?" Snake ignored the comment, as the Colonel had more to say.

"There is more. Aside from the escapees from the asylum, there appears to be a… well, several broadcasted demands from the terrorist cell that has caused a large amount of the damages recently surfaced. We… couldn't initially take them seriously though, but-"

"You couldn't take terrorists seriously?" Snake demanded, frowning. "That doesn't sound like us, taking threats lightly."

"You wouldn't believe the things their leader was demanding- unlimited pizza, all the woman in Gotham to sleep with him, and he was cut off by another member before we go more tangible demands."

The screen changed so that the image of Colonel Campbell was shunted off to the top right corner. In the middle of the screen was an amateur looking video of a muscular blond man that Snake recognized as Johnny Bravo. "_I want a free room in every hotel so the lovely ladies and I can become acquainted better, a pickle sandwich, free pizza in every pizza shop forever, and one hundred million, billion, trillion, million, sebado-llion, billi-"_

"They… demanded pizza?" Otacon asked, utterly shocked and amused, while snake slapped his hand to his face; an epic facepalm. There was no way that any human being could possibly be that stupid.

"Yes, I feel the same, Snake," the Colonel commented. "But listen to this- here is the second transmission," Colonel stated, and a new voice played. It was boisterous, loud, arrogant, and confident, coming from a man who got what he wanted, and knew it all too well. The screen changed, skipping over the other man's fight with Johnny Bravo.

Standing before the camera was an over muscled Frenchman with movie star good looks and luxuriant black hair. From the looks of it, he spent a fortune whitening his teeth at the dentist's office.

"_Gotham City! I am the representative of the… T.C.L., so listen closely! No one reads demands like GASTON!" _the man 'ahemed' briefly, and began to say their desires while flashing a winning smile_, "First, to our location, after being contacted by officials, we are to be brought no less than one billion dollars, in cash. Second, we are to be presented the plans to the finest and most experimental automatic weaponry available- you will bring the technicians to present them, personally! And finally, let it be known to the United Nations oficial records, that there was and is NO MAN like GASTON!"_

"Who's Gaston?" Otacon asked, his look of concern interrupted.

_"Failure to meet our demands will have the entire city of Gotham levelled into one small crater, forty feet below sea level. We expect our demands to be met in the next 48 hours."_

"He's one of the terrorists working with Ocelot. Guess he decided what they wanted," Snake suggested. Gaston was definitely smarter than Johnny Bravo, but not by a very large margin. As to who was more narcissistic, it was a tie.

The image of Gaston immediately faded, leaving the Colonel's face to fill the whole screen.

"These demands, we think," The Colonel stated, "are not the real agenda that Revolver Ocelot and his terrorists have. Whatever those are, they are not in the interests of anyone other than themselves."

"Clearly," Snake let a puff of smoke trail from his mouth, and lit another cigarette.

"Snake, you'll be soon at Gotham. Be careful- there's plenty to worry about in a world where everyone wants to kill you for reason-but these Gotham criminals are a breed apart. Be careful, many of these men kill for nothing but the fun of it. Good luck, Snake."

"Thanks, Colonel," Snake said.

The call from Campbell was concluded and now there was only one course of action that they ought to take.

"Otacon," said Snake. "Land the plane, this is my stop."

This startled the otaku. "Wha—what? We're seven thousand feet up."

"I know," Snake replied, "and that's why I'm going to do a HALO jump right into the heart of Gotham City and try to get as close to Wayne Tower as I possibly can."

This concerned Otacon. "But Snake, I don't think anyone's ever tried a High Altitude Low Opening parachute jump in an urban environment before."

This did not worry Snake, who ran into the cargo bay of the aircraft, grabbing his parachute. "Then mark me down so that I can become famous, Hal." He used Otacon's real name.

Snake disappeared from sight and Otacon was left to handle the controls. Under his breath he whispered, "Good luck, Dave."

As he descended into the airplane's bowels, Snake could hear Otacon chat with him over the CODEC.

"_Well Snake, you're going to want to need a parachute._"

Snake readily walked over to the rack of parachutes which he had painstakingly folded himself. There was no way that he was going to trust Otacon to fold his parachute; the man could barely fold origami.

"_Hit the "action" button to put on a parachute."_

As per instruction, Snake hit the big button with an triangle on it and a parachute dropped into his hand. Strapping the parachute onto his back, he felt the click of the suit's automatic clamps as they attacked to the parachute in case of a failure of any sort.

The he walked over to another rack, these were full of HALO drop helmets which would allow a jumper to survive the thin air of the high altitude and protect him from birds and wind. For that he too had to hit an "x" button.

Wiring in the helmet connected with nanoprobes in the suit, creating a heads up display in the goggles which allowed Snake to view his status.

"_Snake_,_ do you want to save your game?_"

"Why?" Snake grunted under the mask as the suit automatically formed an airtight seal. "We've only just started this game; and don't worry; I'll make sure to leave a review at the end of the chapter."

Snake could really feel the difference with this new sneaking suit. For one thing, it didn't make his nuts rub together like the first model did. It was snug and comfy and perfectly fitted to his body; rather like a knight's armour in that respect. The suit also had an interactive Kevlar weave that could tighten and loosen at the molecular level. This meant that during stealth missions it could give him maximum flexibility and ease of movement, and if he got shot the Kevlar fibres would tighten and provide instant resistance to bullets.

While the armour effect wasn't perfect, it would stop anything except a straight shot. It was a sneaking suit after all, not a combat suit.

However of its many new features, Snake couldn't wait to test out the new experimental active camouflage and grappling hook built into the wrists.

"_I'm depressurizing the cargo bay now, Snake._"

Snake breathed in deeply from the oxygen tank on his back. This was what it was all about. The moment before the mission where a man can be destroyed by his fear or else vanquish his fear utterly.

Snake's strength was more than physical. He was mentally tough; tougher than even Big Boss. Courage; that was Snake's greatest tool on the battlefield.

"_Thirty seconds until we're over the drop zone. Are you ready for this, Snake?_"

"Right now," said Snake. "I feel like even Superman doesn't have enough firepower to take me down."

In the cockpit, Otacon could see the burning inferno of Gotham City. From where he was looking, it looked like he and Snake were flying directly into Hell's Half Acre. The City of Acheron waited for them with open arms and there was no going back.

Snake was going to land right in the murder capital of America and he'd be powerless to help except offer helpful advice over the phone. "I sure hope you're right. I'll make contact with you once I land at Bruce Wayne's private airfield."

The otaku hit a button on the console. "We're opening the doors now.

Snake stared with determination as the cargo bay doors opened to reveal Gotham in all its squalor. Below him was a city home to some of the most violent criminals in the world; and that wasn't even taking into account the super villains that Batman tackled regularly.

Gotham was a rot upon the land, built up year by year by a layer of mould and soot until the inhabitants became so lost inside its inescapable labyrinth that they eventually forgot their humanity and turned into monsters.

Gotham, city of the Patriots; long had this clandestine group experimented on Gotham like their own private petri dish. For five long years a Dark Knight had unknowingly battled the Patriots and foiled their designs; fighting against them with an unshakeable determination and an iron fist and propelled by overwhelming hatred for the City of Crime.

But tonight, evil had a new enemy and the shadows had a new master. Tonight he would fall into the fires and slither amongst the darkness, untouchable and unseen; he'd be a ghost in every sense of the word.

Tonight, Solid Snake was going to pay a visit to Gotham and nothing would ever be the same again.

With a smile on his stubbled face, Snake launched himself off the cargo plane and into the ongoing war below.

Solid Snake was met with the rush of wind and the flow of adrenaline. He loved skydiving. There was nothing like taking the plunge into the sky with nothing but a parachute on your back. It made Snake feel like a flying dinosaur; an unchallenged master of the sky.

As the city came closer and closer, Otacon began to make small talk.

"_Hey Snake, why do they call you 'solid?"_

Snake answered as easily as if he were face to face with Otacon. "They call me 'solid' because my speciality is urban warfare. I know how to fight in the urban jungle and I'm hard enough to crack the concrete that most buildings are made of. Plus for training I spent five years in Blackgate Prison in Gotham where I had to fight inmates and angry killer dogs. Snake in a solid cage of steel."

"_Oh wow," _Otacon was seriously impressed. "_You fought dogs?"_

"Yup," Snake affirmed. "Big, nasty hundred and fifty pound dogs that had been fed human blood since they were puppies. I killed at least five of those stinking things with my bare hands; plus Snake is the second highest rank at FOXHOUND."

Now was the time, he was almost low enough to see the pebbles on top of the sky scrapers. With practiced ease, Snake jerked the ripcord and a huge parachute opened behind him, saving his life.

It was even worse up here. Snake could barely see through the smoke of so many fires. It looked like half the city was burning down there. He didn't really believe what Colonel Campbell had said until now.

As he adjusted the parachute to avoid the looming sky scrapers, Snake could have sworn that he could hear and smell the chaos even through is helmet.

He was getting lower; he could actually make out the people here. They were composed mostly of two camps, those terrified people trying to get out and willing to kill to escape, and those who were taking advantage of the chaos for a good bit of sport killing.

Never before had Snake seen so many people murdering their fellow humans just for fun. Why else would a gang of men with red hoods and skull masks kill and mutilate passing rioters and then hang up their bodies _Predator_ style.

He was very low now, barely higher than the street lamps.

Snake was feeling very good about himself. He'd just done a perfect HALO jump. Now all he had to do was execute the perfect landing.

It was then that God intervened. As Snake was about to cut the cord and go into a perfect roll, his parachute snagged on a flagpole and swung him upwards like a child flying off a swing. Flying into the air, Snake instantly realized how bad this was.

Filing his entire field of vision was the window of some rundown building and if he was lucky he'd hit the window and not the wall.

"Oh—shit" he cursed as he curled into a ball to try and minimize damage.

In the ladies bathroom of the whorehouse, Snake fell through the rather small window and landed on the floor; amazingly he landed on his feet. He and his family must have had cat genes in them.

He definitely had a few bruises to show for his entry through a window barely large enough to fit a child, but he'd live. And the sneaking suit prevented him from getting any lacerations.

Groaning at his less than perfect landing, he tried to cheer himself up by noting that his was history's first HALO jump in an urban environment. One more for the history books.

Pulling off the helmet, Snake threw it aside for he would have no more need for it.

His first priority was to get himself a cigarette.

As he lit his smoke, one of the toilets flushed and a woman came out dressed in a really slutty faux Asian costume.

A familiar voice assaulted Snake's inner peace.

"Snake, what are you doing in the ladies bathroom?"

Spinning around, Snake was greeted by the sight of Mei-Ling, information analyst and an old friend. "Dammit Mei-Ling, I'm on a top secret mission and—hey wait, why are you dressed like that?"

Mei-Ling was wearing a pseudo oriental red shirt that was cut far too low for anybody's standard of modesty. While not well endowed in the chest, the nature of the dress she wore brought out a surprising amount of cleavage as well as showing off her lovely curves to their fullest potential.

The dress she wore just barely covered her ass and Snake was too polite to look and see if she was wearing any panties under that thing.

To finish the ensemble her lovely black hair was done up in pigtails like some pervy hentai artist's vision of corrupted innocence.

Snake eyes Mei-Ling suspiciously. It was lucky for him that the sneaking sit concealed boners pretty well. "I thought you said you were helping your mother because her business in Gotham was struggling?"

Mei-Ling turned down her gaze and started to look at the floor. She was simply too ashamed to face Snake this way. The normally verbose woman was now stuttering. "Well, her business is struggling and I am helping mom out."

Snake however was rapidly putting together this sexy little puzzle. "Mei-Ling, what exactly does your mom do for a living?"

The words failed to come to Mei-Ling. "My mom works ask . . ." she trailed off. "Well, what she does . . ." she trailed off again.

At last, Mei-Ling simply gave up because she knew full well that Snake wasn't an idiot. "Oh dammit Snake, my mom is a whore and she runs this whorehouse."

Snake reacted to the news about Mei-Ling's mom with a measured and cool response. "Hm, I always imagined that your mom owned a restaurant or something. But I never figured for you a lady of the night."

Mei-Ling sighed with exasperation. She's always had a crush on Snake and now that he knew that she was a part time whore, it would most likely kill his interest in her.

Seeing no other option with such an old friend, she told the truth. "My father is a thief and video pirate and he's in prison. My mother is a whore and sometimes I help out with her business as a temporary replacement for one of the girls."

"Now is not the time for love for sale, Mei-Ling," Snake admonished. "The city is tearing itself apart after what these lunatics have done. You and your mother should be far away from here. Where is your father?"

"He's in prison," she said flatly. "I just said that."

Snake took a step closer to the scantily dressed girl. "Mei-Ling, you need to take your mother and get out of here. If my hunch is correct, those terrorists are after the metal gear that's being developed by Wayne Enterprises."

Mei-ling gasped in shock. "A metal gear!"

Before anything else could be said, somebody else barged into the bathroom screaming Mei-Ling's name.

"Mei-Ling! Get over here!" screamed Mei-Ling's mother. Snake's eyes widened as four and a half feet of MILF stormed into the room.

Mei-Ling's mother was rather stunning woman despite her age and smoker's wrinkles; a cigarette in her bright, ruby lips brought a faint acridic smell to the room that Snake found oddly pleasing.

Physically the woman only passingly resembled her daughter except for the look of piercing intelligence in both their eyes.

Instinctively, Snake's eyes were drawn to her long bright red nails; done up to a whore's perfection.

An emotion spread across Snake's features as he took in the fact that for her age, Mei-Ling's mom looked pretty tight and fit. Woman couldn't have been any older than forty. "Mei-Ling, you didn't tell me your mom was hot."

This caused a blush to spread across Mei-Ling's painted features. The blush was visible through the makeup.

Mommy dearest just looked at Snake with a business like expression, blowing carcinogenic smoke.

"Snake," Mei-Ling protested. "Get out of here!"

Yep, Mei-Ling's mom would make a fine catch. So Snake decided to show off his genius intellect and fancy language skills. He began to speak to Mei-Ling's mother in fluent Mandarin.

The mother's eyes widened because this crazy white boy was talking Mandarin better than her own daughter and her deadbeat good for nothing husband.

Mei-Ling could also speak Mandarin fluently but she'd grown up in America and Snake was using words that she normally didn't use when speaking to her parents.

To Mei-Ling's great surprise, her mother actually blushed. What Snake said must have been really naughty. If Big Boss was the greatest soldier of the twentieth century then Mei-Ling's mom was the greatest hooker of the twentieth century; there was nothing she wouldn't do for the right price. Hell, after labouring for ten years in a Chinese factory, Mei-Ling's mom would fuck anybody rather than go back to that kind of industrial hell.

Then, Mei-Ling's mother started to laugh and chuckle. "Oh," she said seductively. "_Oh_."

Chuckling a bit more she took a long, highly provocative suck on her cigarette which did not fail to make Snake blush.

She strutted forward on her ten inch f*ck me pumps. With a thick Beijing accent she said to snake, "You really impress me, Mister Stranger." She winked at Snake.

Mei-Ling knew what kind of man Snake was and she most definitely knew what kind of cockacidal maniac her mother was. She needed to put a stop to this now.

Snake was just about to ask what the mother's name was when he was pulled down to Mei-Ling's height by said information analyst. "Snake," she said in a dangerous voice, "I don't share."

As soon as she let go of Snake, he straightened out is bandanna. "That's cool, Mei-Ling; I respect that."

"But I do share," purred mommy-Ling. To emphasize it, she put out her cigarette on her tongue and flicked it aside.

Snake smiled internally. He felt like he was in a Frank Miller comic and it was raining whores.

Suddenly an explosion shook the building and instantly Snake was all business. "I've got to get downstairs, get everyone to a safe place."

As he sprinted out the ladies washroom, he pulled out his customary SOCOM pistol. It was time to prove to that douche Bruce Wayne that he deserved his pay check.

* * *

Thank you ladies and gentlemen for reading this story :) I thank you so much for supporting me in this humble endeavour. Next chapter Snake shows the criminal element in Gotham that Batman isn't the only one they should be worrying about. Also, Two-face will make his debut in the next chapter, played by the magnificent Aaron Eckhart. Because let's face it, Two-face was awesome in _The Dark Knight_.

Thanks for being patient :D

Ta

Master of the Boot


	8. Injustice for All

Metal Gear Wayne: Shadow of the Bat

Chapter Seven: Injustice for All

Disclaimer: I do not own Metal Gear or Batman. I make no profit from this. This chapter contains graphic violence and references to the sex trade.

* * *

_Flip the coin._

_Good side up._

The fires in Gotham burned bright and men and women screamed. Above the carnage and chaos, the mighty spires of Gotham loomed. Hideous boilerplate architecture clashed horridly with Gothic stonework and gargoyles. Buildings constructed after the earthquake two years ago, made from glass and steel were the first to be destroyed while the older, more sturdy styles of architecture held fast under the onslaught.

On the first floor of a building, one particularly frightening stone gargoyle took a Molotov cocktail to the face. The granite decorative sculpture was engulfed in flames. It's stubby wings threw off smoke and fire and made the gargoyle look as it if were alive and freshly emerged from the gateway to hell.

But hell isn't someplace in the bible or underground. No, hell is in the hearts of the human race; hell was in Gotham city.

In the streets, a gang of women in black leathers armed themselves with Uzis and shot down anything in sight. They laughed as they filled the bodies of fleeing women and children with bullets. For in Gotham city, beauty is a curse and asking politely gets you nowhere.

This gang was known as the Leather Mammas. They killed without mercy and in the bedroom they liked it rough; sometimes extra rough.

The Leather mammas for years had held their own against the various male gangs and super criminals who called the city home. The Mammas had good picking tonight. Their pockets were stuffed with expensive jewlery and lots of cash. The cash was more important though. Since the Bat showed up, everything was harder for a thief to sell now. You almost couldn't make a dishonest living in this town anymore.

A speeding white truck roared down the street, bullets richocheting off the side and off the bullet resistant windshield.

The Leather Mammas screamed obscenities and fired weapons as the truck nearly ran them down. The driver of the stolen armoured car passed close enough to see the women wearing human fingers, ears, noses and eyes as earrings and necklace decorations.

The mercenary behind the wheel shuddered. This town had its own set of problems; and to think that things had actually improved since five years ago.

Well, whatever good the Batman had done, Revolver Ocelot's plan had pretty much undone all in a single night.

In the driver's seat, the mercenary behind the wheel signed. "Shit, the sooner we're out of this city the better."

"Why?" said the man in the passenger's seat. I the back of the armoured car there sat six more mercenaries. These were various hard cases pulled from battlefields all across the world. They'd come because Revolver Ocelot was offering them more money for this job then they'd ever seen in their lives. He hadn't told them what it was they were stealing, only that it was big time Wayne Enterprises stuff. Truth be told Ocelot didn't expect any of these guys to live to collect their money.

The man at the wheel shook his head. "This city is fucked. There's just something wrong about the people here, you know what I'm saying?"

The guy in passenger scoffed. "Yeah right; I lived for five years in Iraq. The only difference between Gotham and Baghdad is that rent is cheaper in Gothem; this is practically home for me."

The driver wore black tactical gear with a nametag sewn onto his breast pocket, "_Red_." Red had been working for one of the big mercenary companies in the Near East when he got laid off after the company folded due to international investigations.

The guy in passenger seat wore a green coloured getup that looked like it was surplus army gear. A bandanna with the Union Jack pattern adorned the man's head. So far all he'd referred to himself as Lorne.

It was much the same with the rest of the mercenaries. Nobody had ever met one another before tonight and none of them had ever worked together. Also, nobody trusted anyone else; which was perfect for what Ocelot was planning.

Suddenly Lorne turned to Red, "Stop the car; I gotta take a piss."

Red did a double take and touched the brim of his black baseball cap, something he usually did when someone said something stupid. "What?"

"You heard me," said Lorne. "Stop the car or I'll piss myself."

Red looked at Lorne with the most utter disbelief. "Piss out the window! There's no way that I'm stopping in this shitstorm."

Lorne gave Red an angry look and his hand went to the Makarov pistol holstered at his side. "Stop the fucking car already, I'll only be thirty seconds."

"Fuck you!" shouted Red. "I'm not stopping for anything. I'm going to drive this armoured car to Burton Square, blow up the backup generators for Wayne Tower and then collect my paycheck and blow it all on whores and blow! Stopping in the middle of pandemonium doesn't fit anywhere in that plan."

Things were coming to a boiling point. In the back of the car, the other mercenaries with their wildly different training, weapons and outfits. They were all watching with interest. They didn't care if Lorne and Red killed each other as long as it didn't cause the vehicle to crash. A few of them were standing up to take the wheel if Red and Lorne did get into a shootout.

Taking one hand off the wheel, Red had now put his hand onto the handle of his scorpion submachine gun. "For the last time, you can piss in a coffee cup if you need to. We're not stopping for anybody."

However at that moment, the choice was taken out of their hands. A gunshot sounded off and a large anti-materiel round blew out one of the puncture proof tires on the armoured car.

The squabble forgotten as Red suddenly struggled to keep the armoured car from colliding with a telephone pole.

Against his better judgement, he rolled down the window and looked at the front left tire. Red cursed to himself; it was a flat tire. Looks like they'd have to stop after all and with a sniper on the loose with definitely not friendly intent.

_Flip the coin._

_Bad side: kill everyone_

_Good side: Interrogate one of them, kill the rest._

Getting out of the vehicle, the mercenaries began to fan out and form a defensive perimeter so that the flat tire on the armoured car could be fixed. Still, all the armour made the vehicle necessarily heavy which in turn made for some very slow tire changing.

As two men worked on changing the tire, the rest of the men pointed their weapons outward. Despite their varying weapons, they were all heavily armed to the last. However the shooter was still out there so the men were understandably twitchy.

Gunning the engine, Red managed to fit the armoured car into an alleyway which hopefully would offer some protection from hostile fire.

The men changed formation, getting behind the armoured car, leaving the two men changing the tire largely exposed.

Using his battlefield experience Red looked down the barrel of his M-16; attempting to scan for any suspicious looking spots where a sniper could attack them. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Lorne tapped him on the shoulder. How could this moron be so passive about the situation.

"I'm heading into that building to take a piss, come and spot me so I don't get ambushed."

Red groaned; watching some other man take a piss was not how he'd imagined mercenary work in Gotham would be like. However, the men were a unit; no matter how disorganized and ill disciplined so he went to spot the man.

The alleyway they'd entered had noly one entrance. Near the posterior of the alley there was a metal door leading into a building which luckily wasn't on fire.

Higher up in Gotham, a figure with an anti-materiel rifle observed the two mercenaries enter the building to the side. The figure was heavily armed, carrying a pair of pistols as well as an assault rifle. Lovingly clenched in his hand was a crowbar with little red spots on it that were not rust.

Dropping his rifle, the figure reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a double headed coin. He flipped the coin; good side. Time to kill them and torture information out of the remaining survivor. This wasn't the first time he'd sprung a trap like this and it wouldn't be the last.

It didn't take long for Red and Lorne to enter the building and find a washroom. Unlike the rest of the city, the public bathroom showed no signs of being burned, bombed or in any way full of dead bodies.

Truly Red hated to have to hold this guy's hand while he went to the bathroom. He truly suspected that Lorne was just doing this to get out of any potential danger while leaving the rest of the group to face attack.

Lorne groaned in delight as he answered the call of nature. He was shaken when he heard the sound of gunfire nearby. This alarmed him because it was the mercenary group firing back.

Lorne wasn't exactly a team player. He'd gotten as far as he did by betraying his enemies and allies for profit. He was a bit like Ocelot but nowhere near as smart or tough. As tempting as it was to let his teammates slug it out alone, he didn't fancy the idea of fighting his way alone through Gotham.

This job was supposed to be a cakewalk. Drive into the city at a specific time and blow up an emergency generator which wasn't supposed to be heavily guarded due to the secrecy of its design. There was a huge chance that they wouldn't see any combat at all.

Much as he boasted about his time in Baghdad, he's spent most of his time there looting and pillaing; spending very little time in actual combat with insurgents.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard Red make a noise like a yell or . . . a gurgle. It was hard to tell over the sound of the firefight.

Quickly, Lorne managed to zip it up and grab his weapon.

As he turned around, he found himself face to face with a horrific sight. There was a guy in front of him wearing a boring suit and holding a gun in his hand, but that wasn't the scary part.

The guy's face was all fucked up. It looked like he was wearing a mask or something; like a Halloween mask but truly scary, not just pretend.

Lorne raised his gun to blow away the scary man but the man beat him to the punch. Lorne's aim was suddenly thrown off when he took the end of a crowbar to the mouth. The impact of hard metal on brittle bone and tooth sent the mercenary spinning and causes blood and broken teeth to fly from his mouth.

The crowbar was swung again and got the man in the stomach, winding him. Lorne fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He felt a strong hand grab his shoulder and throw him forward. The floor of the men's room was filthy and unforgiving; he broke and bloodied his nose on it.

Eyes watering and in considerable pain, Lorne looked up and saw what had become of Red. The driver of this little operation was lying face down on the ground in the middle of a rapidly spreading pool of blood. A massive wound on his neck was open where somebody had stabbed him from behind with the hooked end of a crowbar and ripped out, taking a large and fatal sized hunk of flesh with it. In fact, Red's body had only just stopped twitching and was just truly dead in the last few seconds.

Lorne screamed as his attacker swung the metal bar down onto the back of his leg, most certainly breaking it. A few more gentle crowbar hits to the skull send Lorne off to La-la land.

In the alleyway, the whole mercenary team was dead; all killed by a second shooter. That shooter was just coming down from his nest. The man was dressed in fairly standard military equipment and a ski mask and sunglasses which totally covered his face.

He descended a metal ladder but lost his footing the last few steps and fell the last ten feet. Hurting and groaning in pain, Johnny Sasaki dusted himself off and checked his gun to make sure that he hadn't damaged it too badly. After the disastrous terrorist takeover of the United States by Solidus Snake, Johnny found himself in Gotham City trying to find work with the gang bosses and thugs.

Unfortunately for Johnny, all he got in Gotham was Catwoman rearranging some of his teeth. That was why it was so wonderful that Two-Face gave him a job. Johnny had successfully sniped and killed all of the mercenaries Ocelot sent to disable the backup generator. It was the first competent job he'd done in thirty years. Prior to that the only thing he'd done right was put together a model plane as a kid.

"Uh, hey Mr. Dent; I did well didn't I?" Just listening to Johnny's geeky voice made Two-Face want to blow him away.

Stepping over the dead bodies of the mercenaries, Two-Face had an unconscious Lorne in a fireman's carry; a prisoner to interrogate.

Harvey Dent, once Gotham City's White Knight, had always had the nickname "Two-Face" attached to his reputation. On the one hand he honestly and tirelessly worked to rid the city of crime and fight organized crime, even going so far as to work alongside the Batman. By the same token, Harvey had a dark side.

He'd struggled with dissociative personality disorder his whole life and lied to the people of Gotham with the frequency of a Soviet propaganda minister. Harvey's rocky marriage with alleged spousal abuse had been solid gold for the tabloids. The White Knight of Gotham had been a two faced bastard who cheated on his wife every week with a new hooker and embezzled public funds.

For all his flaws though, Harvey did love his wife even if he was too caught up in a power trip to be a good husband. Enter the Joker. Joker thought it might be fun to burn Harvey and his wife, Rachael, to death. Harvey got a new look and Rachael didn't make it.

Dent, with a history of anger management problems was pushed over the edge and found himself a niche as Gotham's newest vigilante. Unlike the Batman, Two-Face wasn't afraid to put a few felons on the ground.

Two-Face looked down at his coin; a two face gag coin with one side badly scarred and pitted. It was fitting symbolism.

_Flip the coin._

_Good side: pay Johnny_

_Bad side: blow a hole in Johnny's skull and do the world a serious favor._

Luckily for Johnny, a couple of seconds later Two-Face threw a bundle of cash at Johnny's feet and walked away with his prisoner.

Stooping enthusiastically, Johnny bend down and picked up the money. "Hey thanks Mr. Dent—uh, I think there's blood on the money—b-but that's okay! Thanks for the work."

Two-Face continued to walk, putting his coin in his pocket and grabbing a big Colt 1911, he went off to do some work. This would be the last time he'd hire Johnny Sasaki; this time he got lucky.

* * *

_Mamma Ling's Whorehouse_

Acting with the speed of his animal namesake, Solid Snake charged downstairs with his gun drawn, ready to do battle with the forces of evil.

Scanning the area with his SOCOM pistol, Snake saw a sight that sickened him. The whole front of the whore house was smashed in by a giant SUV that most likely had been stolen. The driven lay sprawled over the front of the hood with blood rapidly pouring out of his fractured and perforated skull.

Flooding in from the hole generated by the SUV were a gang of men dressed in hoods and skull masks. Those skulls with red hoods simply wielded basic melee weapons like bats with nails in them, crude flails and assorted knives and some agricultural tools. Those skulls with black hoods were armed with stolen and illegal automatic weapons. One of the black hooded skulls saw Snake and raised his Uzi machinegun. Snake however was too speedy for the desperate criminal. Two shots he fired, both struck the gang member in the head while a third shot fired right through the man's skull.

Two more black skulls popped up with Ak-74's and opened fire on Snake. The super soldier ducked down and avoided a horizontal spray of devastating firepower. Deciding to go for a different set of tactics, Snake pressed a button on his suit and withdrew a dark green capsule.

Utilizing a subvocal command interpreted by the protective plating around his neck, Snake ordered, "_Spy mode_ _on._"

Instantly, the contact lenses he wore became active. Nanomachines began to connect to Snake's optic nerves. The world changed. Everything became a shade of blue/grey. Promptly, the great spy could see everything in a whole new light. He could see through objects, he could see people's bones and how many weapons they carried. Those armed with guns appeared yellow while all others appeared blue.

Seeing that the two gunmen were reloading their weapons, Snake through the green capsule at the men. With pinpoint precision, the gas capsule landed at the feet of the two skull mask wearing gang members and exploded. Both men were suddenly awash with green smoke that made them scream like schoolgirls and drop their weapons. Made from a modified version of the Scarecrow's fear toxin, the green smoke pellets were designed by Otacon to incapacitate attackers while not killing them; they'd just run in fear and eventually pass out.

The green gas dissipated rapidly, an unfortunate weakness of the compound. the gang members were visibly rattled by the sight of two of their heavily armed members taking off and running like screaming cheerleaders.

Rattled but not beaten, many of the gang members still busied themselves with acts of mindless violence and mayhem. Under each mask was a human being horribly deformed mentally by a life on the mean streets of Gotham; they loved the smell of the kill and they'd eat until they had their fill of blood. At present there were about twelve gang members not including the two who'd just run off. Two were busy raping a whore while another tore out her tongue with a pair of pliers.

A conventional smoke grenade landed in front of the gang members raping the prostitute. Most of them had no goal beyond killing the hookers for fun or raping them. The gang bangers noticed the grenade and began to scream a warning to their comrades. Their fun was about to end.

The smoke grenade rolled to a halt on the floor and began to spew out vast quantities of white smoke. An impenetrable wall of rose up and both sides of the battle were suddenly immobilized by the lack of visibility.

Like a nightmare of old, Snake in his state of the art sneaking suit swung through the clouds. Inspired by his beloved _Final Fantasy_ video game series, Otacon modified the contact lenses so that when active they would make Snake's eyes turn green and slitted. Snake of course had no idea who Sephiroth was but their eyes were the same.

In the midst of the thick smoke, the gang members shouted in confusion as the prostitutes fled for safety. In his first encounter with the bloody gangs of Gotham, it looked like Gotham had better rethink its strategy if it wanted to get rid of this new interloper.

Clenching his wrist, Solid Snake fired the grapnel line at the ceiling and swung down like Robin Hood. Kicking with both feet, he knocked the wind out of and busted the ribs of one gang member who'd been mutilating the rape victim. Snake put a bullet through the downed man's head without a second though.

One of the rapists swung at Snake with a sickle, a quick CQC move knocked the sickle from the man's hand and dislocated his elbow at the same time. The third assailant took a sternum shattering kick to the chest.

The smoke was starting to dissipate thanks to a wind coming through the whole in the wall. There was still enough sight obstruction for Snake to have an edge. He picked off the confused and disorganized gang members like a hunter shooting clay pigeons. There was no challenge to it.

The gangs were ruthless, brutal and bloodthirsty. They murdered women and liked it, they sold drugs to children and nothing stopped them but liability; not even having the illusion of a code of honour. They were no match however for the courage and skill of Solid Snake.

Martial arts bone breaking moves had members screaming in pain and begging for an ambulance. Switching his handgun out, Snake produced a Desert Eagle fifty calibre handgun and a special stun knife based off the CQC knife.

Attacking like a maestro, Snake's moves were characterized by a superb precision and simplicity; economy of motion and the power to turn an enemy's attack on them were integral to his fighting system. With his knife he held one attacker at bay, spinning around and using him as a meat shield; while his gun took care of long range enemies.

The thunderous boom and iconic profile of the Desert Eagle served to make an impression on Snake's enemies. However the hookers were hardly idle. Several of the skimpily clad working girls returned from their flight with illegal automatic weapons of their own, aiding Snake in the fight.

The gang members were caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. One of them heard the roar of a chainsaw, only for Mei Ling's mom to chop off the man's head in a gory display worthy of Leatherface. Not waiting for applause, the matriarch prostitute drove the chainsaw at another gang member, thrusting it right through his face. Blood, brain and skull fragments were thrown all over the place and Mamma Ling didn't look like she'd lose a wink of sleep over it.

It then sunk in for all the gang members that they were losing ground rapidly and began to flee. However the hookers began to chase the remaining gang members killing the injured and mutilating them. As Snake watched the hookers mutilate the bodies of the dead gang members, peeling off both their masks and their faces, the reality sunk in for Snake; Gotham was truly a different place.

Seeing that the fighting was over, he deactivated his spy vision and his contact lenses immediately became clear. Snake really hated that it gave him literal snake eyes. Theatricality wasn't his thing. His modus operandi was to sneak in and sneak out without a single soul seeing or hearing him. Theatricality was for the costumed freaks and glory whores.

Snake turned to meet with Mei-Ling, who was utterly horrified by the violence that had been wreaked. She probably wouldn't stay long in Gotham; the library had a pretty limited selection.

Snake quickly brought his Chinese friend up to speed, "Mei Ling, there's a metal Gear in Gotham."

"Yes," she said, "but what's it doing here?"

Snake cleared his throat before pulling out a cigarette from a handy hidden pocket on his suit. Suavely, he lit the death stick with a heating element built into the thumb of his right glove. The heating element in the glove was originally meant to shock an enemy; any attempt to grab Snake and he'd grab them with hands which could scorch flesh. Unintentionally they came in handy for lighting smokes. "Bruce Wayne's company was working on a Metal Gear that could work as an anti-Metal Gear weapon; like RAY but more advanced."

He narrowed his eyes as the cigarette took light. "You need to leave this city, Mei-Ling; dangerous people are on the loose and even anyone who isn't a psychopath might just trample you trying to escape."

The soldier took a drag on his smoke and added, "You should seriously get your mother to leave this city as well. Ocelot is getting involved and there's no telling what he'll do."

"Hey," interrupted the voice of Mei Ling's mother, who walked up to snake with her chainsaw in tow. The older woman began to speak in Mandarin, "_I've been beaten, raped, shot, stabbed and run over and the Joker made me dig my own grave; there's nothing that will make me leave my business and my home. My daughter is free to leave but I'm staying_."

The older woman grabbed the smoke from snake and looked deeply into his eyes as she sucked on it seductively. "And besides," she said in accented English, "There is the Batman."

Turned on by mother Ling's come one, Snake felt a pang of jealousy just by the way that she said "_the Batman_."

"Batman," Snake growled, "What does he have that I don't?"

Mei-Ling's mother smiled, "Wait and see." The old woman turned, suddenly feeling her age. She and her girls would focus on fortifying the whorehouse while Snake ran off and played hero.

Snake turned to Mei-Ling, "I have to leave." He gestured to her whore's outfit that made her look like a Hentai drawing of a Street Fighter character. "Try to get something practical to wear."

Before he was to make his exit, Mei-Ling's mother had one last thing to say, "Oh, Mista Stranger," he turned to face him and smiled, "My name is Ning, look me up." And she took the cigarette in her mouth before walking away.

Snake was now alone with Mei-Ling and the mutilated corpses of the Skullz. Reaching into his suit's multiple pockets, he drew out an ear bud and handed it to Mei-Ling. "This connects to my CODEC, contact me if there's trouble."

Mei-Ling nodded solemnly, "Good luck, Snake."

Snake smiled back at her, "Warriors make their own luck."

Raising his arm high, Snake fired the grappling line attached to his wrist. The thin line was almost invisible to the eye but stronger than steel. Instantly, the line went taught and the powerful motor in snake's gauntlet lifted him up like a comic book her. He zipped to the top of a building and then vanished.

Mei-Ling knew that there was nothing to worry about but she still worried for Snake's safety.

* * *

Lorne awoke with a start. His head felt like his brain had been removed and replaced with cotton stuffing; it beat even the worst hangover that he'd ever had.

He groaned at the pain that jolted through his body like bolts of lightning. He felt like while he was unconscious his kidnapper got into a fight with his wife and took out his anger on the hostage with a crowbar. Lorne was honestly fearing some serious internal injury.

With great difficulty, he managed to open his eyes. What he saw was not encouraging. While everything was shaky, he could still make out the dingy inside of an old, rundown porn shop.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Lorne forced his hurting neck to tilt his head around so to get a better look. If it was any indication of what was going to happen next, the owner of the porn shop was lying spread eagle on the ground with severe bruises on his face and a good fraction of his skull missing from a large caliber gunshot. Looks like he got the bad side of the coin.

It was then that Lorne could hear the sound of footfalls. The sound caused alarm to rise up in the mercenary's chest. He struggled to move from where he was but he found escape impossible. He'd been hauled here, tied up to a chair and worst of all he'd been stripped totally naked. Now Lorne was getting really frightened.

Two-Face walked in carrying a playboy magazine and a box of old and well used tools. Dismissively, he threw aside the skin magazine and began to open up the old and dented metal tool box.

Lorne was scared, but when he got a good look at Two-Face, then he was terrified. He just wished right then and there that he could evaporate on the spot, or fold in on himself like a piece of paper to shrink from that piercing gaze.

Once upon a time, Harvey Dent had been a handsome, two faced liar. Now that he literally had two faces, he was more honest than he'd ever been.

One half of Two-Face's face was still handsome; he had a strong chin, twinkling blue eye and messy but sexy straw coloured hair.

The other half was something else altogether. The whole thing had been massively burned, to the bone in some places. Now, even years after the original injury you could still scarred remains of third and second degree burns.

The fire had melted his skin also opened up a grisly hole in Two-Face's cheek; so that all the time you could see his now chipped, yellowed teeth. All of his hair had been burned from the left side of his head; all that remained was gruesome, cancerlike scar tissue.

The worst thing was the eye. All the skin around his eye had been burned away. Doctor had to do major resonctructive work just to make sure that Harvey could still blink. The eye was a large bloodshot orb nearly twice the size of Harvey's other eye. It was partially glazed from the fire and it seemed to glow in the dim light.

Lorne's state of intense fear was broken by a small, metallic sound. Two-Face had flipped the coin. The imprisoned man could only watch as the coin seemed to take forever to land in the super criminal's hand.

After what felt like centuries, Two-Face looked at Lorne with an intensity which spoke of a barely concealed rage. The man was a volcano that could explode at any second; it was a fifty-fifty shot. "What's your name?" Two-Face had a voice like a semi-truck running over gravel. His venom and sheer evil instantly apparent through his tone.

"Bill," Lorne blurted out. He panicked and that was the first thing which came to mind. Plus, there was no chance that Two-Face could know what his real name was.

There was a slight tremor in Two-Face's posture when suddenly the crow bar flew out and smashed the helpless captive in the ribs. There was a sickening crunch of ribs as Lorne's eyes bulged out. The captive merc wheezed and convulsed in his chair; it looked like any moment he'd drown in Gotham City's toxic air.

Two-Face looked at the small, tattered card he'd found in Lorne's pocket. It was a gift card for a chain of titty bars with Lorne's name on it. It must have been in his pocket for months after the money on the card ran out.

Two-Face got down and grabbed Lorne by the throat, using his other hand to press the iron bar across the man's throat. Lorne looked as helpless and terrified as a small child; Two-Face fed off of it.

"Your real name," said Two-Face, his hands trembling slightly with rage. If he lost it there wouldn't be enough of a captive left to fill a shoe box.

"L-l-lorne" the man gasped out barely; his vision was starting to go black between being winded by the crowbar and having the damn thing pressed across his throat.

Two-Face pulled away, throwing down the gift card and wiping Lorne's sweat on the front of his jacket.

Harvey took a deep breath and waved his crowbar a bit. Next to his coin, the crowbar was his best friend. They were like Han Solo and Chewbacca or Chell and the companion cube; there was no separating them.

"What were you hired to do?" Dent bit out. "I'll know if you lie."

Lorne gulped at the air but he still felt like he was suffocating; his entire body hurt which wasn't helping his concentration. "We were hired to blow up the backup generator for Wayne Tower, that's it."

Two-Face gave Lorne a version of the lazy eye on steroids. His huge eye on the burned half of his face was as lifeless as the glass eye of a stuffed animal. In fact, Two-Face himself should have been dead a long time ago. Under that suit, he still carried the scars from the dreadful fire, gangland fights, clashes with the Mafia and a few from the Joker. None of it compared to the pain in his heart and the eternal guilt knowing that he'd failed the person who loved him the most in every way.

"Who was it that hired you? Tell me."

Lorne began to cough and choke on his own saliva. It was so very hard to breathe; broken ribs played a part no doubt.

"The-riddler—he hired us," he gasped.

Two-Face snarled and snapped his teeth like he wanted to eat his captive's beating herart. "Wrong! I know that the Riddler was nothing more than a go-between. Who really hired you!"

If Lorne hesitated, it wasn't because he wished to protect his employer. Terror was freezing his brain. A little bit of good cop/bad cop could have loosened his tongue but that's not how things roll in Gotham. In Gotham it's usually good cop/psychotic cop; if you don't answer the good cop, the other guy will eat your left eye and if you still stone wall him then he'll eat your other eye. And Two-Face was just psychotic.

"We never saw him," Lorne babbled.

Two-Face pulled away as if touching Lorne was disgusting. "Go on!" he yelled.

"We just heard him on a speaker phone," the merc gurgled. He coughed a bit and tasted blood. Two-Face had not been gentle with him.

"And?" Dent's voice became a deadly whisper. He was losing what little patience he had.

Lorne was sweating bullets and struggling at the bonds that held him but he may as well have been glued to that chair and chained. He only stopped struggling when he heard Two-Face's expensive leather shoes walking towards him and his eyes narrow with ever present rage.

"He was british—called himself General Ivan. That's all I know! Please let me go!" And just like that, the man started to break down and cry; tears fell down his face like he was five years old again.

Two-Face stopped and narrowed his eyes slightly in concentration; it was as if the name General Ivan meant something to him but he couldn't quite remember why.

Immediately, Two-Face put down his crowbar and pulled out a switch blade from his pocket.

"Oh shit!" Lorne cried. He tried to struggle free but only managed to knock the chair over.

_Flip the coin_

_Good side: let him go_

_Bad side: slice his belly open and see how full of shit he really is_

The coin sailed gracefully through the air and landed in Harvey's hand. He walked up behind Lorne, who was like a beetle flipped onto its back. He was howling and pleading for his life. Given the circumstances, most men would act the same way.

Slowly, Two-Face took his time strolling up to Lorne with not a care in the world. Outside people were dying in droves and nobody could stop it; Two-Face was having the time of his life.

Lorne's begging was like white noise; Harvey didn't even hear it. He'd heard begging and pleading so much now that it had become passé. Nobody had listened to him those years ago when the Joker mutilated him and murdered his wife; why should he listen to anybody else's pleas.

Unlike most people, Dent didn't attribute his survival to overwhelming strength or skill. It had been luck that he survived the joker on the night that he became Two-Face. Luck was what it all came down to. No matter how strong a man or woman was; they had to choose from the options hat luck laid out for them. Self-determination was a lie; an illusion to let the slobs think that they had a chance of improving their lives. It was all a coin toss.

Two-Face stood over Lorne. Dispassionately he glared down at the merc with the same disinterest as a scientist examining a petri dish full of paramecium. The man struggled and made noise that had no meaning.

Two-Face snapped open his switch blade—

And sliced off the ropes holding his captive in place.

Freed of the constraints, Lorne jumped back and cowered before Two-Face like a herd animal cornered by a predator.

"You're free to go," said Harvey. Unlike his previous rage, his voice was full of apathy now. The coin toss had decided and he would abide by it without a word of protest.

In the light, the good side of the coin glittered while the bad side, sarred and pitted; seemed to suck up all light from around it.

"You'd better go," said Harvey, with the same apathy, "unless you want to make it best out of three." He held out the coin threateningly.

Lorne had no intention of staying around and giving Two-Face an excuse to disembowel him; as if he needed an excuse in the first place. Lorne tried to run but was stopped by his broken leg; his scream of pain had no impact whatsoever on Two-Face.

He casually observed the man try to hobble away, naked, bleeding and most definitely suffering from internal injuries. He wouldn't survive long on the streets of Gotham, but that wasn't Two-Face's problem. The guy could survive if he could avoid being seen; the rest of it was in the hands of Lady Luck.

Turning around, Two-Face bent over and grabbed his crowbar. With care, he folded up his knife and pulled out his handgun again. Walking out of the building, Two-Face grabbed the automatic weapon he'd been carrying with him when he came in.

Around him, two people were shot and killed but he paid it no mind. He was above it all. Even at a time like this, people knew who he was and what he was capable of. In a city full of psychopaths, Harvey Dent had managed to make a name for himself as somebody who should not be messed with under the best of circumstances.

Grabbing his cellphone with the ease borne of a lawyer's life of phone calls and meetings; Two-Face dialled in the number of one of his greatest allies.

General Ivan was in town. Lorne and the other mercenaries didn't know who was hiring them but Two-Face had an idea.

As the person on the other end of the line picked up, Harvey told that person that he had important news.

General Ivan was in town. Lorne and the other mercenaries didn't know who was hiring them but Two-Face had an idea.

Major Zero needed to be warned that Ocelot was in Gotham.

* * *

God, I know it's been a long time since I updated this story but it's good to be back :) My Partner EZB has been absent so I moved ahead without him. Hopefully he won't be too mad and if he is I'll make it up to him. Hopefully this chapter won't dissapoint . . . I think it's good but the readers are the final arbiters of all my work. So fingers crossed ;)

And now the Patriots are getting involved :D What will happen next?

And thank you for reading and thank you for tolerating this long absence of metal Ger Wayne. Next chapter features what the Joker is up to, Ocelot runs into Poison Ivy and at City Hall Gaston hosts a kegger.

This is the Master of the Boot and I say . . TA ;)


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